


The Knight and the Huntress

by herald0fmanwe, silmarilz1701



Series: The Fëanoriel Chronicles [9]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Door of Night is breaking, F/M, Fourth Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15827892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herald0fmanwe/pseuds/herald0fmanwe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmarilz1701/pseuds/silmarilz1701
Summary: Picking up soon after the events of "The Eagle and the Star", this story focuses most on the continuing adventures of Timothy, Aldamir, and Astra.  After Elerína and Thorongil are joined by two of their more notorious brethren from the east, visit the Ent-gardens of Isengard, the depths of Minas Morgul, and a return to the Spider's pass as Timothy and his friends are pulled into a contest of strength and wit against an enemy nearly as old as Middle Earth itself.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello Friends! Silz is back with heraldofmanwe 's second story. Very important, this takes place AFTER Flight to the East, so there are a couple spoilers, but it's nothing I haven't hinted at already, for you lovely Fëanoriel Chronicles readers.
> 
> If you're new here, welcome! The previous short story by my brother was The Eagle and the Star, so check that wonderful tale out as well, and make sure to read it before this one. As always, this IS taking place in the universe established by my OCs over in the main works.
> 
> UPDATES: Tuesdays

"Eglanor is who!?" shouted Aragorn.

"Sauron," replied Elerína calmly.

Aragorn shook his head. "That's impossible."

"It should be, yes," said Elerína. "But Melkor's power is slipping through the cracks as Arda as again reshaped..."

"This is our reckoning," interrupted Thorongil. "The separation of Aman from the rest of Arda was never meant to be - an act of cowardice, to avoid a war with Numenor…"

"The wisdom of the Valar is not ours to question," objected Elerína.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Thorongil hissed. He had told them himself - many times.

Elerína was silent, so her husband continued.

"Sauron will expect me - or someone like me - to be waiting for him. Someone to force him to face the Valar's judgement, or die here; again."

"That is why he made me swear to protect him," sighed Aragorn. He had been played the fool, though he had already suspected some foul game was afoot when he signed Eglanor's pardon.

"I do believe I promised him protection as long as  _I_ lived," continued the King. "I was ready to die to defeat Sauron before…"

"That won't be necessary," smiled Thorongil. "You can do little against our power."

"We're not going to kill him," interrupted Elerína.

Aragorn looked most perplexed.

"If Sauron wants a pardon … we'll give him one," smiled Elerína.

"Is that wise?" asked Aragorn. Thorongil shook his head no.

"Morgoth has made a grave miscalculation," said she. "Sauron will not serve him again - not if given a viable alternative."

Aragorn disagreed. "Elerína, he is responsible for the deaths of millions; thousands of years of war, the great plagues…"

Thorongil put his hand on the King's shoulder and looked at him with the gaze of a defeated man. "She's made her decision, Aragorn."

The previous night the maiar had argued long and hard over the decision. Thorongil made it clear he felt Sauron needed to die; he even used his magic to show her many of Sauron's most heinous crimes in vivid detail - torture and murder of countless innocents. But she was certain that he would be a valuable asset, and that she could control him.

"We need him," Elerína declared. "We shall soon be outnumbered."

"With all due respect," began the King.

"My wife has made her decision," growled Thorongil. He could question her. Aragorn could not.

"The wisdom of the maiar is not to be questioned?" asked Aragorn mockingly.

"You can question it all you like, but it will do you no good," hissed Thorongil. He was in no mood for jest.

Unfortunately for Aragorn, the maiar were correct; without their aid he could do little to harm Sauron, so the King of Gondor and the North bit his tongue. Their presence was certainly better than the alternative - facing Sauron with only his own guard. Nevertheless he loosened Anduril in its sheath and asked Arwen to visit Ithilien for a few days.

On the same morning Anders and the Rangers were rescuing Mirunor from Cirith Ungol, Eldarion and the survivors of his expedition to Utumno arrived at the gates of Minas Tirith. They left their horses at the royal stables and walked quickly and quietly up to the Citadel. None of the Gondorians knew what Sauron or Thuringwethil were planning once they reached the throne room, but every sword had a hand upon the hilt, and all but the prince kept themselves far enough from the former Dark Lord that he couldn't attack them all at once.

Sauron stayed hardly a foot from Eldarion at every moment. He had no faith in Aragorn's promise of pardon and protection - 'the treacherous are ever distrustful' as Gandalf would say - but so long as he had the King's son within arms reach he knew he was untouchable. Thuringwethil stood beside Sauron, her black hood pulled low over her face under the midday sun.

When the company reached the doors to the palace they found only two guards of the Citadel in sight. They bowed to their crown-prince. "By order of the King, only you, Eglanor, and his companion may enter," they said. Edarion silenced the objections of his friends. It was not until they had walked blindly into the throne room that Sauron realized that the men of Gondor should have known nothing of his companion Thuringwethil. The guards closed the door behind them.

Eldarion led Sauron and the vampire past the statues of the kings of old. As they approached the throne he thought it oddly empty. It was silent as the halls of the dead and only Aragorn could be seen, sitting high upon his marble seat.

The King rose and stepped down to the floor. He beckoned his son to embrace him. "Welcome home Eldarion."

Sauron reached for the prince's shoulder. He found these proceedings incredibly suspicious and was not about to release his hostage.

"If you lay a finger on the boy you won't leave this room alive," proclaimed a woman's voice, fair and cultured yet cold and calculating. Sauron's hand recoiled at the sound of it. From behind the throne stepped Elerína with a circlet upon her brow - a single sky blue gem held fast to her forehead by intertwining threads of pale silver. The prince met her gaze but it taxed his spirit terribly to look directly into her eyes. After a moment he rubbed his eyes and looked down at her feet, forgetting his father's command.

Thuringwethil, mighty among the vampires, lasted hardly a second longer before she too had to look away. Sauron however was not so easily daunted. He stared her down, yet he obeyed her command - his mind was torn away from thoughts of the Prince.

"Go to your father, child," Elerína commanded. Eldarion gladly obeyed, and the King and Prince embraced after nearly a year apart. Aragorn took him by the arm and led him next to the throne as Elerína stepped up onto the dias and in front of the Throne of Gondor.

"Hello Sauron," she smiled, looking down at him. "It's been a long time."

"Indeed it has," replied the former Lord of the Rings. Both their voices seemed to echo and resonate in the marble covered room, and every word rang in Eldarions ears.

"I expected Manwë to send someone to find me," he continued, "but I was not expecting it to be you. I was expecting someone more like…"

"Me," growled Thorongil, stepping out from behind a pillar near to Thuringwethil. Aeglos glowed blue in his right hand and his sword shone red in his left. With a shriek from the vampire both she and Sauron retreated before him, both trying to hide behind the other. Thuringwethil was the faster of the two and cowered behind Sauron.

Sauron looked to Elerína, hoping she would restrain her husband's wrath. "Given my options, I'd much rather negotiate with you."

"Kneel!" she commanded. Sauron hesitated, but Thuringwethil fell immediately to her knees. She was not above begging for her life - ironic, given how many had fruitlessly begged her for mercy, only to be devoured. As Thorongil circled around them like a predator stalking his prey, Elerína repeated her command. Sauron slowly obeyed.

"You will release Aragorn from his promises of protection," began Elerína.

"Why don't you take a seat, Your Majesty," mocked Sauron, gesturing towards Aragorn's throne.

Elerína turned to Aragorn and his son. "Observe how already he tries to sow discord between us. He can't help himself..."

Sauron seethed at her arrogance. Aragorn recognized an opportunity to wound Sauron deeper than he likely ever could with his sword.

"Oh by all means, m'lady, sit," he said with a knowing glance at Sauron.

Elerína laughed. "Oh, does that sting, Sauron? How many years did you want this throne?"

"Then take it, and prove yourself a hypocrite," Sauron hissed.

"He offers it because he knows I would not keep it," sighed Elerína. "Now, release him from his oaths."

"Why would I ever do that?" laughed Sauron.

"As a show of good faith."

Sauron burst into raucous laughter. Then suddenly it stopped. "Wait, you're serious?"

Elerína stood as still as the statues of the kings of old, glaring at Sauron. For the first time since Eldarion had met 'Eglanor' he saw hint of indecision on the maia's face.

'What use would Aragorn be against Ilmarë and her attack dog of a husband?' he thought. The stakes had been raised. Aragorn was now immaterial - Ilmarë's protection could shield him from any of his former enemies, be they man, elf, or even the Valar themselves.

Sauron glanced at Aragorn and saw the hatred in his eyes. 'Perhaps this 'king' will object to Ilmarë's mercy,' he thought with a smile. 'How long, I wonder, will he pretend to rule his kingdom with a real Queen standing over his shoulder? And how many times will she allow a mortal to overrule her judgement before she realizes he is more trouble than he's worth.'

Sauron had not seen Ilmarë since the earliest days of the forming of the world, but he remembered her well. He respected her - as a rival, perhaps, but not like the elves and men of middle earth - she was like him: born to rule, and with the power to do it. There was no shame in kneeling to her; even if it meant also answering to her husband.

Eönwë he hated more. He had power too - perhaps more than anyone! And he was cunning. But he lacked ambition; Melkor had offered him dominion over all life in Middle Earth as commander of all his armies, and he turned it down. And for what? Ilmarë? With all Arda under the control of Melkor's armies Eönwë could have taken whatever he wished. He freely chose to live under the Valar's tyranny, and worse than that, helped damn the rest of the maiar to it as well. Even now 'The Predator' paced around him, wanting more than anything to cut his throat, but he was kept tightly on a leash.

Sauron was of course wrong on most counts: even with Eönwë the armies of Morgoth would have been hard pressed to conquer Arda, Ilmarë would never have surrendered, and Eönwë would likely have betrayed Morgoth without her prodding anyways. He could kill his enemies without a second thought, but he could not enslave the innocent - not even if he had believed Morgoth when he said it was in their best interest.

"Very well," sighed Sauron. "I release Aragorn from his promises to me."

Ilmarë nodded, but did not thank him. "What would you ask of me?"

Sauron, as you might expect, is the sort of person who can quickly convince themself that they deserve anything, so his list of demands came out awkwardly like a list of things he felt owed. "I want a full pardon - I died, after all, and under the laws of elves transgressions do not follow through the grave…"

Ilmarë rolled her eyes.

"Second, I expect your protection from all my enemies in Middle Earth, and I expect to be treated with the respect due my station…"

"That station being 'murderer, liar, and traitor?'" interrupted Eönwë. Ilmarë gestured for him to hold his peace, but she couldn't help but smile.

"Don't interrupt while the adults are talking," replied Sauron.

"I kept a list, you know - of everyone you killed," growled Eönwë.

Sauron started to turn around and rise to face him. "Really? Was it shorter or longer than yours?"

"Darling, please," said Ilmarë, who's soft voice instantly halted their bickering. "Now is not the time."

Eönwë nodded, and Sauron knelt back down - a bit quicker than he was comfortable with when he thought about it later.

"Is that all, Sauron?" she asked. Sauron nodded. It did not go unnoticed that Sauron had said nothing of Thuringwethil or her safety.

"Very well, Sauron," proclaimed Ilmarë. "I accept your terms. In exchange for your unwavering loyalty and service in the coming years, you will have my protection - and when we return to Valinor, your fate will be the same as ours."

Sauron felt a very strange emotion: gratitude. He would later wonder why; she had accepted his demands at the price of unwavering loyalty and service for an indeterminate amount of time.

"We could not ask for better help than yours, Sauron," she continued. "Now rise… we should speak more in private."

"At the first sign of betrayal, I'll kill you," warned Eönwë.

"I believe you," grinned Sauron. ' _You'll try,'_  he thought.


	2. What You Wish For

"She sure likes that spot," whispered one guardsman of the Citadel to another.

"It's a great view," replied his comrade.

"I know, but how long can one marvel at the same vista, no matter how breathtaking?" he replied. "She is there every day!"

Seven hundred feet above the gates of Minas Tirith, upon the great promontory of stone which cut Minas Tirith in half, Elerína stood gazing at the horizon. Her flowing dark hair danced in the mountain wind. A short wall of white stone provided a railing on either side of the rocky spur but at the tip where she stood nothing blocked her path. One more step and she would land in the middle of the first courtyard of the city.

Unbeknownst to the guardsmen she was not admiring the view. Her eyes could see far beyond the sight of mortal men. Gazing north-easterly she watched a great battle unfolding as the orcs and trolls of Mordor drove the Gondorian garrison at the Black Gate into full retreat. It would have been a slaughter save for the heroics of their rearguard - and one warrior in particular. Upon the dusty fields of the Morannon orc after orc and troll after troll fell to Thorongil's fiery blade and icy spear.

"M'lady..." began Amdirien, Aragorn's eldest daughter.

"Not now, child!" snapped the maia.

Amdirien took a seat on a marble bench some fifteen feet behind Elerína. After twenty minutes the denizens of Mordor gave up their chase and the Gondorian survivors, with Thorongil in tow, looked to be safe.

Elerína rubbed her eyes and stepped back from the edge. Exhausted by her efforts, she stumbled and nearly fell as she made her way to sit beside the Princess.

"What do you need?" she asked in a labored voice.

"Are you alright?" inquired her friend.

"I'll be fine," said Elerína. Amdirien looked skeptical.

"You look like you need food and water," suggested the Princess. Elerína nodded and they walked back towards the palace.

"What did you see?" asked Amdirien.

"A battle to the north," she replied.

"Is Thorongil alright?"

"How did you know…"

"It's the only explanation for how cross you were when I interrupted you," noted the Princess.

"He's fine," Elerína replied, offering no apology to the princess.

"Do you think he and Anders will return soon?" inquired Amdirien.

"I hope so," sighed Elerína, before shaking her head. "But no, I don't think they will be back anytime soon."

"Perhaps we could visit them!" suggested Amdirien excitedly. "A royal visit to the front might lift the men's spirits, and yours too! My brother is always going on trips like that..."

"Your brother is a soldier!"

"I'm not suggesting we actually go into battle…"

Elerína nodded. "If your father approves, I will take you."

Aragorn was amicable to the idea. Amdirien was second in line for the crown of Gondor and Aragorn desired that she be comfortable around the army. Given the gravity of the loss of the Black Gate he decided to send Aderthon, his nephew and an excellent field commander, to take charge of the defense of Cair Andros.

A level below the Citadel Mirumor sat in the library of Minas Tirith studying tomes on the Rings of Power. She was getting nowhere. She was about to leave when a mysterious stranger sat in the chair beside hers. He was tall and handsome and elegantly dressed.

"You won't find anything useful about that ring here," he said.

"What?" asked Mirumor startled.

"That ring you stole from Barad-dûr," he repeated. "You won't find anything useful in these books."

"How do you know…" Mirumor began.

"About the ring?" interrupted the stranger. "Such things have been my favorite pursuit. As for you, it is obvious where you must have gotten it."

"Well perhaps you can help me unlock its secrets?" suggested the sorceress.

The stranger nodded. "Not here. Come, let us speak in private."

He led Mirumor to a small room deep in the bowels of the library. It was little more than a secluded closet with a chair and a side table where one could read in peace. The stranger took a seat and got quickly to his point.

"What do you want from that ring?" he asked.

"Power, knowledge, immortality…" replied Mirumor. "I don't know what it can do, but I intend to find out."

"It can't  _do_  anything anymore," said the stranger. "Its power was tied to The One, and you can do nothing to restore it."

"You sound awfully certain about that."

"I am, and it is too dangerous to allow you to carry it about."

"I thought you said it was powerless!"

"I said  _you_  can do nothing to restore it. Perhaps others with more power could."

Mirumor had heard enough. She turned to leave but a woman stood in the door frame. She was tall, slender, and seductively dressed. Her bloodshot eyes betrayed a hunger which unsettled the sorceress - a woman accustomed to dealing with the unsettling.

"What is this?" asked Mirumor incredulously, turning to face the man once again.

"You are not leaving with that ring," he said calmly.

"You have no more right to it than I do!" protested Mirumir. "And you know nothing of what I might be capable of!"

She had hardly finished speaking when the stranger stood up, growing in stature before her eyes. She stumbled back but with one step he grabbed her by the neck with his right hand. His skin burned away, leaving a charred surface black as volcanic flow covered in a network of cracks through which fire seeped. She tried to scream but in his clutch she couldn't breath. As he pulled her face close to his she saw his eyes. They were ringed with dancing flame yet in the center as deep and dark as the Doors of Night.

He spoke calmly in a deep voice. "I know exactly what you are capable of - nothing of consequence."

She tried what sorcery she knew but she could do nothing to escape. She was a far cry from the power of the great mortal sorcerers of old - The Witch King, The Mouth, The Black Hand. Just when she thought he was going to let her die he loosened his grip just enough to allow her a breath before he continued.

"As for the ring, I have more right to it than anyone, although in your present condition what matters is that if you don't give it to me immediately I will kill you here and now."

Mirumor tore the ring from her finger and threw it into her captor's outstretched hand.

"A wise decision!" he mocked. "I am sure I don't need tell you that if you tell anyone what you have seen here, death will be the least of your concerns."

Mirumor tried to nod.

"Good," he replied, easily tossing her into a corner of the room. As she stumbled to her feet, wheezing and coughing, she looked up and saw the stranger looking just as had when she first met him. She might have thought it had been some clever illusion if her neck didn't hurt so badly.

"What are you?" she stammered.

"Exactly what you have always wanted to find," he laughed. "But right now you should be much more concerned with what she is."

The other woman locked the only door to the room and smiled with bared teeth - or more accurately, fangs.

When Mirumor awoke the next morning in the alley behind the library she thought at first it had been a bad dream. As soon as she tried to move and felt the pain in her neck, both from the monster's grip and the vampire's bite, she knew for certain it had been real. If she needed any more proof, her ring was gone.

"Stay in Umbar, be a priestess of Morgoth, it's an easy life," she muttered to herself, recalling her mother's advice. "But no; I had to go treasure hunting."

"You have spent your entire life grasping blindly at the darkness and at your first glimpse of real power you want to run home?" mocked a voice from the shadows.

Mirumor jumped back from the voice and tripped on a loose paving-stone. Thuringwethil the vampire laughed as she stepped into the light.

Mirumor lay back on the stone ground, exasperated. "Here for seconds?"

The vampire walked over to Mirumor and offered her a hand.


	3. Cowering at Cair Andros

“Please?” begged Aldamir.

 

“It isn't my decision,” said the guard.  “By the King's command all land within view of the tower of Isengard belongs to the ents, and they don't like visitors.”

 

“What if I had business in the tower?” asked Aldamir.

 

“I would know of it, or you would have the passphrase,” replied the guard.

 

Aldamir and Astra mounted their horses and rode away from the guardpost.

 

“I know what I am asking for next time we help the King,” muttered Aldamir.

 

“I still don't understand why you want to see these … what do you call them … ents?” asked Astra.  “We can't hunt them, can we?”

 

“Goodness no!” exclaimed Aldamir.  “They are walking, talking trees!”

 

“What do trees talk about?” inquired The Huntress.

 

“I don't know, but I intend to find out,” he answered.

 

Having spent the past eight weeks travelling with Astra as she hunted every beast in Dunland and the surrounding lands, Aldamir was eager to reach Edoras.  Astra would have spent another month on the hunt but she knew Aldamir needed to see a city, do some trading, and sleep in a proper bed. Gram gladly welcomed Aldamir and Astra into his home when they arrived exhausted at his door.

 

The next morning Aldamir eagerly got to work.  He sold most of Astra’s trophies for thrice what she would have earned.  Astra, who was never impressed by anything but herself, had to admit that he was much better at this aspect of her profession than she was.  That admission was nearly all the pay he got, because The Huntress was loath to share much of the coin she felt she alone had earned.

 

After a few relaxing days in Edoras, Aldamir insisted they ride to Minas Tirith.  Astra was unenthusiastic but Aldamir had indulged her love of the wild for many weeks and she knew she should let him choose their next destination.  To appease Astra he suggested they ride to the White City without taking the roads; Astra joyously approved.

 

The route they planned took them down the Snowbourne, then along the Entwash to the Anduin, then past Cair Andros and due south towards the Pelennor.  The journey was uneventful until the night before they were to reach Cair Andros.

 

It was late at night but Astra couldn't sleep.  They had made no fire for the weather was fair and there were no beasts they knew to fear in these lands.  As Astra sat staring eastward she saw the glint of moonlight on metal. She quietly roused Aldamir.

 

“We've got company,” she whispered.

 

Three dark shapes were moving towards them at great pace.  They ran hunched over and looked too small to be men.

 

“Orcs!” Aldamir whispered back.  “Aim for the one on the far left.”

 

Aldamir drew his sword when the orcs were only about twenty yards away.  As soon as he did Astra killed one of the three.

 

“For Gondor!” he shouted, charging headlong at his foes.  One of the orcs engaged Aldamir while the other dove past him and rushed at Astra.  She hurriedly fired an arrow which struck it in the shoulder. The orc wailed in pain but pressed the attack.

 

Astra had no sword, nor any training in personal combat.  She parried a few blows with her bow before it broke in twain.  The orc lifted its sword for a killing blow just as Aldamir tumbled into it from behind, running his sword through its chest.

 

“Are you alright,” he cried, kneeling beside Astra.

 

“My bow!” she screamed.  “It broke my bow! Damned orcs!”  She gave the dead creature a swift kick with her boot for good measure.

 

Aldamir laughed.  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

Astra was quite distraught at the loss of her bow, but Aldamir assured her he knew where in Minas Tirith she could find a replacement of the highest quality.  Aldamir was much more worried that orcs were on this side of the Anduin.

 

He searched the orcs' bodies carefully and found a conspicuously well wrapped bundle of papers.  The language of their contents was unknown to him, but he rightly guessed that the garrison at Cair Andros would be interested in such a find.

 

“Do you think you can follow their tracks back to where they crossed the river?” asked Aldamir.

 

The Huntress forgot her sorrow with such a task at hand.  She quickly followed the orcs’ trail back to a cobbled together boat hidden amidst reeds at the southern edge of the Mouths of the Entwash.

 

“We need to report this at once,” said Aldamir.

 

Astra and Aldamir rode through the night and reached Cair Andros a few hours before noon.  Thorongil spied their approach and met them at the edge of their camp.

 

“Thorongil!” cried Aldamir from afar.  “I didn't expect to find you here.”

 

“You are looking looking at the border of Gondor, for all intents and purposes,” replied Thorongil solemnly.  “Many of us here are from the Black Gate garrison which fell five days ago.”

 

Aldamir was stunned speechless.  Eventually Astra spoke.

 

“We ran into some orcs north-west of here,” she explained.  “They broke my bow! You probably don't care. You might be more interested in this!”

 

She handed him the documents they had taken from the orcs.  He flipped through them briefly.

 

“These need to be taken to Minas Tirith as soon as possible,” said Thorongil.

 

“We can take them,” replied Astra.  “Right Aldamir? Aldamir?”

 

Aldamir nodded absentmindedly.  He still couldn't believe the Army of Gondor had lost a battle.  In his short lifetime he had known nothing but victories; in his eyes they invincible.

 

A few hours later the Cair Andros garrison received a more impressive visit.  A company of around sixty-five arrived from the south. At their head rode Amdirien and Aderthon with the Princess’s royal guard.  Elerína was not far behind. Behind her came fifty of Gondor’s finest heavy infantry: Aderthon’s own hand picked guard. They wore red cloaks and their gauntlets were engraven with the symbol of Miril’s house.

 

Aderthon got straight to the point.  He summoned the captains of the Black Gate and Cair Andros garrisons, as well as Captain Anders and Thorongil.

 

“By order of the King all forces north and east of Minas Tirith are now under my command.  Assemble your men for royal inspection, then you will each give me a report on the situation.”

 

The entire garrison was arrayed upon a grassy field for Amdirien to see.  She spoke to them briefly, praising the courage and ensuring them that the Crown recognized their sacrifice.  She then dismissed them and went to find Captain Anders.

 

“Your Majesty!” he said, kneeling at her approach.

 

“Rise, Captain,” smiled the Princess.  “I wish to know honestly, how bad is it?”

 

“I do not believe the enemy has the numbers to threaten us beyond the Anduin,” Anders replied.  “Their main stronghold seems to be Durthang, which is farther from us than Minas Tirith is. To supply an army to attack us here would be challenging.”

 

“Well that is good,” said Amdirien.

 

“At the Black Gate the situation is reversed,” explained Anders.  “It will be hard to hold it, even if we retake it.”

 

Amdirien nodded.  “It hasn't been the same without you.  Without you and Thorongil around, Elerína can spend all her time correcting my mistakes.”

 

“Well then, I shall endeavor to win this war as quickly as possible,” laughed Anders, “so that Elerína may have other people to tell they are wrong.”

 

While the maiar’s mortal students reminisced Elerína found her husband amidst the captains of the garrison.

 

“There you are!” she exclaimed.  “I didn't come all this way to see Gondor’s soldiers.”

 

“You shouldn't have brought the Princess this close to the fighting,” replied Thorongil crossly.

 

“She's perfectly safe with me present,” glared Elerína.

 

“Perhaps,” Thorongil replied, “It is good to see you, though I suspect you had a hand in Aderthon’s new assignment.  Do you want me home that badly?”

 

“That wasn't my doing, actually,” laughed Elerína. “And yes, I do.  You left me alone with Sauron and his vampire!”

 

“I said we should kill Sauron,” answered Thorongil.  “You said you had him under control!”

 

“I do,” sighed Elerína.

 

“Fine, fine,” muttered Thorongil.  “I can come back. The next stage will involve a great deal of waiting.”

 

Suddenly Aderthon arrived.  “Thorongil, I want you to lead a scouting mission this evening.  Put together a squad…”

 

“I'm returning to Minas Tirith,” Thorongil interrupted.

 

Aderthon was quite taken aback.  “I thought you were assigned to the garrison at the Black Gate.”

 

“I am not assigned anywhere” replied Thorongil defiantly.

 

Amdirien arrived to settle the matter.

 

“Thorongil does not answer to anyone but my father,” she said.  “And honestly, he doesn't answer to him either, save as a courtesy.  He has been kind enough to help us fight this menace from Mordor, but if he wishes to return to Minas Tirith with his wife he is welcome to do so.  We can but thank him for his service.”

 

“Yes, your Majesty,” replied Aderthon, seeing that Amdirien clearly thought this was acceptable.  “Can I send Captain Anders, or is he returning also?”

 

“Anders should remain,” decided Thorongil, to Amdirien’s disappointment.  “You know him?”

 

“I would say that I know of him,” answered Aderthon.  “We have probably met. His heroism is well known to me and my men.”

 

Thorongil nodded.  “Don't get him killed.”

 

Aldamir and Astra joined Thorongil, Elerína, Amdirien, and her guard for the return to Minas Tirith.  Their journey was safe and swift. Aragorn was very pleased with Aldamir’s find, though no one could figure out what the papers said.  As a reward, Aragorn gave Aldamir the passphrase to enter the seventh level.

 

“I don't suppose I could have the passphrase for the valley of Isengard instead?” asked Aldamir.

 

“Don't be hasty,” laughed Aragorn.


	4. Codebreaking

“Orcs do not typically use codes this advanced,” sighed Aragorn. “This is incredible.”

Thorongil sat back in his chair, spinning one of his silver knives between his fingers. “These patterns remind me of material we seized back during The War.”

“Your last war with Morogoth?”

“Yes,” clarified Thorongil.

After a few minutes of silence Thorongil jammed his knife into the table with disgust. “There is only only option - ask Sauron for help.”

“Agreed,” said Aragorn. “But please stop putting holes through my tables. They cost a fortune.”

“Sorry sir,” Thorongil blushed.

Thorongil went to find Sauron and Thuringwethil in their small room on the sixth level. It was little more than a closet in a barracks for the city guard.

Sauron sarcastically welcomed him in. “Well hello, Eönwë. Welcome to our humble abode.”

Sauron sat down in one of only two rickety wooden chairs. He had intended for Thuringwethil to take the other but she skittered to the Sauron’s side beckoning Thorongil to sit down. Sauron rolled his eyes at her terror.

To say Sauron was afraid of Eönwë and Ilmarë would have been an exaggeration. He certainly feared what they might become: Eönwë if he regained his former powers and Ilmarë if she came to her senses, stopped listening to the whims of the kings of Middle Earth, and ruled over them instead as their rightful queen. He served them, at least outwardly, because it seemed like the most sensible course of action. He no longer had every nation east of Barad-dûr at his beck and call, and his repeated failures had lost him the respect and fear which he needed to control his rivals.

Beyond those reasons was one Sauron would not admit even to himself - death had made him cautious. In the past he had been willing to risk everything to achieve his goals - that “death or glory” attitude died with The Ring. His former allies would never trust The Great Deceiver but Ilmarë needed him, which kept him safe and even afforded some degree of respected. Finally, the idea of fighting beside people willing to die for their cause seemed rather appealing.

Thuringwethil had more reason to fear Eönwë and Ilmarë. During the War to Free the Elves, when the hosts of the Valar fought the host of Morgoth to stop his corruption of the first born into orcs, many vampires served as assassins and saboteurs. All of their kind were highly regarded by Morgoth’s other servants, both for their powers and their seductive charm. As the war turned against The Great Enemy the vampires were sent more and more frequently against soft targets - especially healers and other maiar who served those Valar of more peaceful persuasion. They always left behind a calling card of sorts: the weak will perish painted in their victim’s blood.

After one particularly devastating raid in which hundreds of maiar of Estë were slaughtered, Ilmarë ordered her husband to retaliate in kind - which he desired to do. He took a small force and flew to the castle above Utumno where many of the most respected vampires made their abode. In a single night, while nearly all of Morgoth’s soldiers were far afield, more than one hundred vampires were put to the sword and fire. Those who mustered a resistance had no more success than those who pleaded for mercy. When it was clear the battle was lost, Thuringwethil fled through the raging inferno in the form of a bat. Eönwë gave chase but she proved the faster.

When she returned with Sauron and his werewolves the next morning she found the attackers gone and none of her brethren alive. Above the castle gate was a message painted in the blood of her brothers and sisters: The weak have perished. The remaining vampires were considerably more cautious in their attacks from that day onwards. The physical scars of that night healed the next time she fed, but the memories haunted her still.

“How can we be of service?” asked the former Lord of the Rings.

“I am unable to decipher this,” said Thorongil, handing Sauron the packet of messages. “I believe it is employing a variant of a First Age code developed by…”

“I have no need of your theories,” interrupted Sauron. 

“Though you are right,” he admitted after a moment, upset he hadn't interrupted him sooner. “Without the cypher key I don't know if this can be decoded. Perhaps with a sufficient number of messages we can reverse engineer…”

“I know,” interrupted Thorongil in turn. “I am here because your knowledge of orcish dialects far exceeds mine, and…”

“I understand,” said Sauron. “You know, if I had space to work this would go a lot more quickly, and if I had a room up in the Citadel you would not need to come down here to…”

“Oh, are the accommodations not to your liking?” laughed Thorongil. “This is certainly nicer than where I wanted to put you…”

“Oh, an ‘it's nicer than a coffin’ joke, how original,” laughed Sauron in turn. “You are not half as scary as you used to be.”

Eönwë stood up and sparks leapt between his fingers as the light in the room dimmed and his eyes flashed red. “Don't test me, Sauron! This pathetic body may hide my power but it's still there, and even like this I can kill you. Your record in personal combat includes losses to a few mortals and a dog.”

Thuringwethil, with speed only a vampire could match, cowered behind Sauron’s chair.

“I'm glad that fire is still in you, we may need it,” replied Sauron, hiding his concern.

Thorongil rolled his eyes before turning to leave. “I'm sure you are.” 

“It was a big dog,” muttered Sauron after he was gone.

 

Late that night Sauron went to Thorongil's room. Elerína opened the door.

“This had better be important,” she said.

“Thorongil needs to see this,” he replied grimly.

Thorongil came to the door and Sauron handed him a page of tables and charts. Thorongil at once understood that they were possible decodings of a single word. Sauron pointed to the second most likely result, “Ingacarca”

Thorongil looked very concerned.

“Isn't that roughly ‘first fang’ in old, mangled Quenya?” asked Elerína, not understanding why everyone seemed so troubled.

“Ingacarca - Inga as the orcs called him - was one of the first orcs Morgoth created,” explained Thorongil. “He commanded legions of Morgoth's finest troops. He was a match for the greatest elvish warriors and a brilliant strategist.”

He turned back to Sauron with a look of great skepticism. “How could you not know if he is alive?”

“There were always rumors and whispers that he lived, but orcs are incredibly superstitious creatures,” replied Sauron. “Inga is a legend, and since no one knows what happened to him after Angband fell, every orc battalion has somebody who swears they know somebody who has seen him. It is possible some unusually clever orc has just taken his name.”

“We can hope,” agreed Thorongil. “I’ll bet on it really being him. He was a survivor.”

After some deep thought Thorongil settled upon a course. “Tell Thuringwethil I want to see her.”

“She'll be thrilled,” chuckled Sauron.

 

Down on the fifth level Astra and Aldamir were having a late dinner with Eddil. Astra was enthusiastically telling the tale of their encounter with the orcs.

“And then the orcs came charging at us! I killed one with my first shot, and then wounded a second. It came at me and I fought it off with my bow until Aldamir came and stabbed him from behind! It broke my bow though.”

“I am glad you made it here in one piece,” said Eddil.

“Where is Caranel?” asked Aldamir.

“She was assigned to the Cair Andros garrison,” replied Eddil worriedly. “I thought that would be a safe assignment…”

“I'm sure she'll be ok,” said Astra cheerfully. “I have never seen so many warriors assembled for battle as we saw at Cair Andros.”

Eddil and Aldamir smiled. That garrison was but one of many along the border, and even with Aderthon’s reinforcements it was still ‘lightly defended’ by Gondorian accounting in times of war.

“The worst part is she is probably excited to be on the front lines!” laughed Eddil.

“That is for certain,” said Aldamir. “She’s never liked waiting.”

“Where is Timothy?” asked Aldamir.

“I'm not actually sure,” Eddil replied. “I know he took a trip back to his home village but that was many weeks ago.”

 

As it turned out Timothy was only a day away from Minas Tirith. He had spent a long time in the village of his birth, where he was well liked - though considered odd for leaving the life of a farmer. Not long after the gates of Minas Tirith opened the next morning Timothy went looking for Eddil and Aldamir.


	5. Stores and Taverns

It was a beautiful autumn morning when Timothy returned to Minas Tirith.  Having no idea if any of his friends were about the city he went first to Aldamir’s house, where he found Aldamir’s parents and learned that Aldamir and Astra were searching through the most expensive shops of the city looking for a bow that would satisfy her.  Eager to find his friends, Timothy set off for the finest fletcher’s shop in the city. He found Astra standing next to table with at least seven different bows of exquisite design. A finely dressed gentleman was trying to convince her these were the finest bows in all of Gondor.  Aldamir saw his friend arrive and rushed to greet him.

 

“Tim! Welcome back!  Do you have any idea what bows cost up here?”

 

“Not really…” replied Tim.  “Why does she need a new bow?”

 

“We were attacked by orcs, and she had to use her old one like a staff to hold off sword blows,” explained Aldamir.

 

“Where?” inquired Timothy.

 

Aldamir told him the tale of their encounter with the three orcs in brief detail.

 

“Did you keep a copy of the notes?” asked Timothy.

 

It suddenly occurred to Aldamir that Timothy would have wanted a look at them.  “Oh. Sorry.”

 

“I guess it is best not to risk them falling into hostile hands,” muttered Tim.

 

The two friends returned to see if Astra had made any progress.

 

“They just don't feel right,” she said, gesturing at the table of bows the salesman had brought her to test thus far.  “The shopkeeper says he has one more for me to try. ‘Second Age Noldor' or something.”

 

Timothy and Aldamir both gasped, Timothy because of how old it would be and Aldamir how much it would cost.

 

The salesman brought out the bow.   The wood was black and it was covered in a fine mesh of mithril and gold.  Astra took it from the shopkeeper and set an arrow to the string.

 

“Rumor has it this bow came from the forges of Celebrimbor himself,” claimed the salesman.

 

“Is there any proof of that?” asked Timothy.

 

“Well, no…” he stammered.  “But there are records that this particular design, with the mithril and gold insets, was used by a number of wealthy elves of his day.”

 

“Who's Celebrimbor?” asked Astra.

 

“A great Elven smith - I’ll explain later,” said Aldamir.

 

The scholar in Timothy wanted to correct such a trivial description of the maker of Three Elven Rings but he bit his tongue.

 

Astra took a few shots with the bow and excitedly turned to Aldamir.  “It's perfect!”

 

“It's probably too expensive, dear,” he sighed.  He turned to the shopkeeper. “How much?”

 

“I don't know, only the store’s owner is allowed to sell it,” he replied.  “I’ll fetch him.”

 

The shop’s owner, a middle aged Dunedain man, came to haggle.  “It's hard to put a price on something this unique. Most of these were either taken to Valinor or destroyed in the wars with Sauron.”

 

“I wager you can put a price on it,” laughed Aldamir.

 

“Have we met before?” asked the gentleman upon hearing his voice.

 

“I’m Aldamir, son of Toldor,” he replied.

 

“Then we probably have met!” said the man, “I have done business with your father, and he has always treated me fairly.  I will tell you honestly then: I price this at ten-thousand silver, and would be loath to part with it for less than seven.”

 

Timothy gasped a bit too loudly.

 

“It’s a fair price!” objected the man.

 

“I'm sorry, I’m sure it is!” Timothy replied.  “I mean no offense, it's just that you could probably buy half my village for ten thousand silver!”

 

The shop owner chuckled.  “Until the dwarves of Moria find more Mithril, anything made with it will be beyond price.  Even with the raw materials, I don't know if anyone has the skill to make a weapon like this.  The designs for this type of bow appear in a book by Celebrimbor.”

 

While Timothy and the shop owner discussed the weapon's history, Aldamir turned to Astra.  “We can't afford this, Astra. That bow is priced for a prince or a lord.”

 

Astra nodded sadly.

 

“Do you have any longbows of dwarven make?” she asked the Dunedain.

 

The man looked confused.  “Dwarven? But in human size?”

 

Astra nodded.  “My last bow was given to me by the King Under the Mountain.”

 

The shopkeeper looked unsure of her story.

 

“You doubt me?” she asked wrathfully.

 

“No!” replied the gentleman.  “But, why would a dwarf king give a human woman a bow?”

 

“Because I hunted many beasts in his land,” she answered.  “And I dared to recover the Black Arrow…”

 

“The Black Arrow!” cried the fletcher.  “As in Bard’s Black Arrow?”

 

With a proud smile Astra nodded.

 

“I know that dwarven bows are generally made of stiffer wood than men tend to prefer, on account of the shorter draw distance,” muttered the shopkeeper.  “Give me a minute!”

 

After a short time he brought Astra another bow of elvish make, but this one was much younger.  She took a few shots with it and was satisfied.

 

“Well, it isn't that one,” she said, pointing to the Second Age bow , “but it is like my old one.  Thank you.”

 

Aldamir hoped for a reasonable price.  The shopkeeper had an intriguing proposal.

 

“I mark that one at one-thousand,” he said.  “I will make you this offer: bring me the Black Arrow and let me take a shot with it, and I shall sell you this bow for four-hundred silver.”

 

Aldamir was inclined to accept, but Astra was not enthusiastic.

 

“I do not usually let anyone else touch the arrow,” she objected.

 

“I can understand your trepidation,” said the man, “but I was born and raised a fletcher, and the making of bows and arrows has been my life's work.  I assure you that I appreciate its value.”

 

Astra reluctantly agreed, under one condition.  “If you should somehow break it, you shall owe me that special bow,” she said.

 

“Agreed, but only upon delivery of a note from the King Under the Mountain assuring me of its authenticity,” stipulated the merchant.

 

At dawn the next day the transaction was completed.  Aldamir helped Astra with the money, and Astra allowed the fletcher to take many shots with Smaug’s Bane.  Upon seeing the joy and reverence with which he handled the arrow she was secretly glad to let him shoot it.  She was proud to see one of the Dunedain, who often scoffed at the customs of her people, revere an object of Lake-Town’s legacy.

 

There was one last matter to attend to regarding the new bow.  In its own way, it would be far harder for Aldamir than paying for the bow.

 

“Thank you Aldamir,” said Astra as they left the store.  “Now we just need to find a shrine or temple to Béma so I can make an offering.”

 

“A what now?” asked Aldamir.

 

“Make a what?” stammered Timothy.

 

Astra looked at the two Gondorians with the same puzzled look they gave her.

 

“An offering… to Béma…” she repeated slowly, as one does to someone new to a language.

 

“We heard,” replied Aldamir.  “We don't have temples or give offerings.”

 

“Well I do!” declared Astra.  “Surely somewhere in this city there is a shrine to Béma.”

 

Aldamir shook his head.  “If there is they certainly don't tell anyone about it.”

 

Despite his disdain for the idea Timothy was more helpful.  “I think there are a few houses devoted to the worship of various Ainur located in the wooden buildings beyond the outer wall.”

 

Not eager to get to their destination, Aldamir and Timothy insisted they go to a tavern for lunch first.  It was mid afternoon when they left the main gate and entered the densely packed streets of wooden buildings that lay outside the city.  Despite their relatively simple construction they were well built and all very new, having been constructed after the siege of the city half a century prior.  Just as Timothy predicted there was a street with many temples.

 

The upper class of Minas Tirith despised the presence of ‘temples’ so close to their city, but the multitude of merchants who had regular dealings with foreign traders made sure they were kept open.  Many Haradrim and Easterlings would not stay in a city without the proper houses of worship. Timothy led the way down the street, noting some of the buildings as they past.

 

“Haradic versions of Oromé and Tulkas; Umbar’s cruel god of the sea; a temple to Varda that uses elven architectural styles despite the fact that the elves know better than to build temples...”

 

“There is even a temple to the Rhûnic deities, including Vultur,” he said, pointing to a black and gold sign above a well decorated door.  As he spoke he stopped suddenly, realizing the irony of a shrine to their dark, brutal interpretation of Eönwë - who was of course within the city at this very moment.  Astra and Aldamir clattered into him as he halted.

 

“Something wrong?” asked Astra.

 

“No,” replied Timothy quickly.  Aldamir was curious what had brought him to a standstill but be wouldn't say.  After passing a few more buildings they came to temples of northern origin. One was an impressive hall of dwarven design devoted to Mahal their maker, which was less a temple and more a guild hall for all dwarves visiting the White City.  It was open to anyone who didn't mind small furniture and dwarven food. On Durin’s Day each year they held a grand feast which was a favorite of all those who could hold down authentic dwarven ale.

 

Across from Mahal’s Hall stood a small temple to the pantheon of northmen’s mythology, in which Béma, Lord of the Hunt, featured prominently.  They entered to see a number of small shrines curtained off from the main room, each devoted to a different deity. Aldamir and Timothy stood awkwardly in the main room while Astra took the remains of her old bow as well as her new one into Béma’s chapel.  After what felt like an hour to the two Gondorians but was probably only ten minutes Astra returned with only her new bow.

 

“Done?” asked Aldamir.

 

“Afraid something will jump out of the shrines and attack you?” laughed Astra.

 

“No,” glared Timothy, unable to find a polite way of saying ‘we are afraid of being seen in a place like this.’

 

They left the temple intent on returning to the city when Astra asked if they had real dwarven ale in Mahal’s Hall.

 

Aldamir grinned.  “They do! Think you can handle it?”

 

Astra laughed merrily as she led them into the high ceilinged hall.  There were at least fifteen dwarves and ten men feasting.

 

“Do you have a barrel of Lonely Mountain Reserve?” she shouted at the bartender.

 

“Reserve?” he shouted back.  “Aye, but that'll cost you two silver a mug!”

 

It suddenly occurred to Aldamir that Astra was no stranger to dwarven taverns.  Timothy shook his head at the thought of how they would feel the next morning.

 

Tim stopped drinking halfway through his mug and stumbled out of the hall after about an hour.  Astra gladly finished it for him, and she and Aldamir had a second round in addition. Astra had to carry him home.


	6. Going Postal

“You boys wouldn't last an hour in Erebor’s ale halls,” laughed Astra. Both Aldamir and Timothy held their head in their hands.

They were enjoying a late but very nice breakfast prepared by Aldamir’s mother when a loud knock at the door brought groans from the two men. Aldamir’s mother went to see who it was. A Guard of the Citadel asked if Aldamir could be found within. With some effort the two adventurers made it to the door.

“Aldamir son of Toldor is summoned to the Citadel to appear before the King as soon as his schedule permits,” reported the man. He of course meant the King’s schedule, not Aldamir’s. As soon as Aldamir nodded the guardsman sped off to his next task.

“I can't appear before the King like this!” exclaimed Aldamir.

Timothy took the opposite and more accurate view. “You certainly can't refuse the summons!”

“I know, I know,” mumbled Aldamir.

Astra and Timothy joined Aldamir for the relatively short walk from his home on the fifth level to the gate of the seventh. The two uninvited guests were refused entry, but seemingly by chance Elerína passed by and invited then to join her for lunch. Aldamir went to the palace while Elerína, Astra, and Timothy went back down the road to find somewhere to eat.

Aldamir waited more than an hour to see the King. It was shortly after noon when he was ushered into the throne room. The King was tired from a morning of war councils and got straight to the point.

“If I recall correctly you want to see Isengard?” asked the King.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” said Aldamir, quickly wincing at the volume of his own voice.

“I have lost three separate errand riders dispatched for that tower,” continued the King. “I can either send enough troops to overcome whatever is stopping them, or I can send my message by more … covert channels. The first option is neither sustainable nor acceptable given the current military situation. You and your friends are to travel to Isengard under other pretense and deliver written instructions to the captain of the tower.”

“Yes Sir!” smiled Aldamir.

“Deliver the message first, look for Ents second!” ordered the King with a laugh.

Aldamir nodded. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

Aldamir stood to leave.

“You look terrible,” observed the King. “Long night?”

Aldamir blushed and knelt again. “My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty!”

“Is it a good tale?” asked the King in a more friendly tone.

“I learned not to try to match dwarven drinks with a woman raised in the Lonely Mountain’s shadow,” Aldamir replied.

The King laughed, remembering his many nights spent in the taverns of the North when he went by less flattering titles.

“Dismissed, Aldamir,” he said. “Do not tell anyone, including your friends, of your assignment. You will be summoned again to receive the contents you must deliver to the tower.”

After Aldamir’s acceptance of the mission Aragorn discreetly arranged for Caranel to be recalled from Cair Andros. She was not amused. When she returned she found all her friends enjoying dinner at their favorite tavern on the first level, The Drawn Sword. Eddil was surprised but overjoyed to see her.

“You're back! You're not injured, are you dear?”

Caranel was in a foul mood. “Don't ‘welcome home dear’ me!” You did this somehow, didn't you?”

Eddil was completely put out. “Did what? What's wrong?”

“Out of all the rangers in the garrison, I get sent home! How did you do it?”

Eddil had no answer. He had done nothing.

“Calm down, Caranel,” interrupted Aldamir.

“Don't you tell me to calm down,” she glared.

Aldamir walked up to her and spoke as softly as he could. “We have another mission.”

“Really?”

“Yes really,” hissed Timothy, unhappy at her treatment of Eddil.

Caranel looked down. “Oh… sorry Eddil.”

Now no one was in a mood for revelry, so they all retired to their lodgings. The next morning they met at Aldamir’s house for breakfast, mostly on account of it being free. While they ate they received a visitor, and this time it was no common errand boy.

Four royal guards with sea-blue cloaks trimmed in gold stood at the door. Between them was Princess Amdirien in dress befitting her station.

“Is your son here, ma’am?” she asked kindly.

Aldamir’s mother knelt and nodded. At a wave of the Princess’s hand two of her guards took places on either side of the door while the other pair led her in. Before Aldamir and his friends could stand or kneel she spoke.

“You may sit. I believe Aldamir knows why I am here?”

“I believe so, Your Majesty,” he nodded.

She took a small leather bound book with no marking on the exterior from one of her guards and handed it to him. “This must be delivered to Orthanc without delay. Do not open it. We have lost a number of couriers to the tower in the last few months. Hopefully you have more success. If you cannot reach the tower, this book must be destroyed. In my father's words, ‘make sure they understand that book is worth more than their lives.’”

“We understand, Your Majesty,” said Aldamir with a smile, seeing the Princess was uncomfortable with the last bit.

“Good luck!” added Amdirien. “Oh and Timothy, please come back with us to the Citadel; Elerína wants to see you.”

Timothy was very uncomfortable travelling with the Princess and her guard. He felt as though everyone they passed was looking at him. When they reached the Citadel Amdirien dismissed her guard and led young Timothy down the paved crest of the long promontory of rock around which the city was built. Elerína stood at its tip, as she was wont to do, observing the movings of the world.

“Don't interrupt her,” whispered Amdirien in warning. “She can be very cross if you do.”

“Indeed,” laughed the maia, hearing her from many yards away. She stepped back from the cliff and rubbed her eyes.

“Kneel,” she commanded. Timothy knelt before her and she offered him a gift. “I promised you a new stone.”

As he took it from her he marvelled at the craftsmanship. It was hexagon of translucent blue crystal. A web of Mithril covered it save for the front of the largest face, where Ilmarë’s symbol, an elegant ‘I’ surrounded by fourteen stars, appeared in glittering gold. At the top of the stone was a small ring attached to the mithril along the tip such that a chain could be fastened to it.

Elerína took his hands and closed them over the sigil. After some words in her own tongue she spoke to him in the language of men. “Bring hope to the hopeless.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied.

“And please come back safely,” she added.

“I will try!” said Timothy with a smile.

Elerína and Amdirien walked to the palace while Timothy set off for the gate out of the Citadel level. As he passed through it Thorongil stepped out of the shadows.

“Hi!” exclaimed Timothy with a jump.

Thorongil tossed Timothy a sword in its sheath. “You might need this.”

“I'm not a soldier,” replied Timothy, drawing the weapon enough to examine it. He tried to hide his disappointment at finding it an average Gondorian blade.

“Not yet,” answered Thorongil. Timothy was unsure if this was foresight - he certainly hoped not.

 

Elsewhere in the city Aldamir and Astra were arguing.

“I don't need a sword!” objected Astra.

“You were nearly killed by an orc,” said Aldamir sternly, “you need to learn to defend yourself!”

Astra scowled but took the blade. It was incredibly light, a short sword of Numenorean craft worth ten times Timothy’s new weapon. Astra was loath to do anything she did not already excel at; the thought of learning from Aldamir and Caranel was not appealing. Nevertheless she knew Aldamir was right, so she grudgingly agreed.

 

The next morning the six adventurers set off for Rohan. The travellers stayed at inns most nights, though they always kept a watch. The mysterious disappearances of the King's prior messengers weighed down their merriment. They stayed with Gram in Edoras for two nights.

While relaxing at the most popular tavern in the city Astra met an adventurer from Dale. He brought them ill news.

“How's home?” asked Astra cheerfully in her native tongue.

“More dangerous every day,” replied the traveller in the common speech so Astra’s companions could understand. “Goblins on wolves hunt within three days ride of the Mountain. No merchant dares the journey from the Mountain to the Elven Halls without a large escort. Even the elves are worried; they don't travel the Running nearly as often.”

Astra was shocked. “I haven't been gone that long! What happened?”

“Nobody knows for certain, but I say it’s because the goblins have a leader again!” replied the adventurer. “And he's clever! Their raids aren't deeds of passion anymore - they have plans. And that isn't the worst of it! He works with men, the treacherous and the cowardly. Plenty of villages to the north and west of Dale now have high ‘taxes,’ but the money certainly isn't going to Thorin or Dale or Lake-Town. It just vanishes, and those villages don't get touched. Now it doesn't take a wizard to figure out where it’s going...”

“Well that is horrible news!” exclaimed Astra.

“Since when do goblins collect taxes!” ranted the adventurer. “They can barely read!”

“Probably last under The Witch-King of Angmar, but that was ages ago,” Timothy chimed in.

“Point is, the goblins are organized!” said the traveller. “Don't travel north of the Old Forest Road between the mountains and the trees without great need.”

Aldamir and company set off for Isengard the next morning. They slept beside the road and kept careful watch. On the fifth day of travel they approached the former Nan Curunír, the Wizard’s Vale. Timothy noted that now it was just ‘Nan,’ with Curunír gone. No one else was in the mood for jokes.

Only a few hours from Orthanc the travellers came upon the site of a battle, or more accurately a slaughter. Eight men in leather armor lay dead, some killed by steel, others torn apart. More than one had bite marks on his corpse.

“What beast leaves bites like that?” asked Astra, who thought she could identify any predator by such marks. No one had an answer, but all five thought they looked disturbingly small - small and human.

They all drew their weapons and walked slowly towards the ruins of the ring of Isengard. Every minute felt like an hour, but they met no enemy upon the road. They reached the perimeter guard and showed him the book they carried. He let them pass.

They felt a bit safer once they entered the ruins of the ring of Isengard, filled with the most beautiful green trees they had ever seen. Surely, they thought, no evil could last long within the gardens of the Ents.

They reached the stairs of the Tower of Orthanc, the height of which awed the five travellers. Aldamir actually lived nearly as high above the plains of Pelennor as Orthanc towered above the bowl of Isengard, but it was far different to see the single black stone tower than the sloping Minas Anor. Upon a balcony overlooking the door stood an old man.

“Password!” he shouted.

None of the adventurers had a password. Aldamir held up the book they brought. The old man scurried away from the balcony and two minutes later the door to the tower opened. Beside the old man stood several guards in white cloaks.

The old man took the book from Aldamir and read the first page. “It’s about time!” he grumbled, apparently convinced of its authenticity.

“Can we come in?” asked Caranel. “It has been a long journey.”

The old man nodded and left the door open. He disappeared quickly up a staircase with the book. The tower guards were more welcoming, especially to Caranel once they learned she was a King's Ranger. They led the five adventurers into a room with many chairs, two of which were occupied.

Thorongil and a woman in a black cloak sat around a table with several books all opened to particular pages. At first they thought it was Elerína, but when she turned to face them they saw it was someone new. She wore tight fitting black and scarlet silk. Thorongil was dressed in the garb of a Gondorian messenger, and they rightly guessed he had been sent as bait for whoever had taken to attacking the King’s riders.

“You made it!” Thorongil laughed. “I trust you didn't have any trouble.”

“Not really,” answered Aldamir. “Who is your friend?”

“One of my associates,” replied Thorongil tersely. “She may give her name of she wishes.”

“I'm Gwethien,” said the woman cheerfully. Her voice was soft and soothing.

“Did you have anything to do with the bodies a few hours south of here?” asked Eddil.

“We did,” replied Thorongil. “They attacked us and tried to steal the book we carried.”

“I don't suppose you know anything about… bites on those bodies?” asked Timothy, who had a suspicion ‘Gwethien’ might be more than she appeared.

“Bite marks?” repeated Thorongil as if confused. “None that we saw. It must have been after they were killed.”

Timothy thought Thorongil sounded honest, so the matter was dropped despite knowing that Gwethien meant ‘Daughter of Shadow’ and that Thorongil’s associates would possibly be maiar. Thorongil had more talent for deception than anyone gave him credit for, on account of his tendency to hack, slash, and burn his way out of problems.

In reality Gwethien was of course Thuringwethil, who had returned with Prince Eldarion from the East. She was one of the greatest Vampires, maiar servants of Morgoth who had transcended the usual limitations of servants of evil - such as an inability heal physical injury or recover lost power quickly - by draining the children of Illuvatar of their life’s blood in a most literal manner. She had gone with Thorongil to draw out whoever was attacking Aragorn’s riders. They had succeeded with little effort - Thorongil stopping at the popular taverns along their route and telling anyone who asked that he was a messenger headed for Orthanc. Gwethien had shadowed him in the form of a small bat.

They had been attacked by eight experienced bandits along the road and easily killed all but their leader. Gwethien, to her great joy, killed four to Thorongil’s three before Thorongil immobilized their leader with a knife thrown into his knee. The outlaw had hoped to buy his life with valuable information, but Thorongil saw no reason to barter for what he could take from the murderer by force. He left him to Gwethien, who first interrogated him in her most terrifying, monstrous form, and then killed him with a bite to his throat. After enjoying a long drink she returned to the form of an ordinary woman and the two maiar proceeded to Orthanc, about a day ahead of Aldamir and his friends. Thorongil was not one to leave loose ends, and the bandit had seen Thuringwethil use her powers in combat.

The five adventurers spent the night in Orthanc along with Thorongil and Gwethien. The next day, while the two maiar poured through Saruman’s notes on the orcs of the mountains for any sign of Ingacarca, Aldamir and his friends set out to try to find a tree-herder.


	7. Secrets

“They’re out here somewhere,” muttered Aldamir over and over. “They must be here.”

The five adventurers had been wandering through the beautiful grass and trees surrounding Orthanc all morning, with Aldamir occasionally calling out for Ents as though they were dogs. This was not proving effective.

Astra patted him on the back. “I don't think the Ents want to talk to us.”

“We could try knocking on trees,” suggested Timothy giggling, “maybe one will wake up.”

“That sounds horribly rude!” objected Caranel.

“I'm joking, I'm joking,” mumbled Timothy. “It's not like I'm suggesting we light a fire…”

There was a creaking sound from the tree nearest Timothy. After a moment's startled silence everyone laughed; it had been only a gust of wind bending the tree. Probably.

“We need lunch,” said Eddil.

Astra nodded. “Come on dear, we should go back to the tower.”

Aldamir reluctantly agreed. They returned to Orthanc where they had a mediocre meal. Timothy went to ask Thorongil if he had any advice to help them find an Ent.

“You could light the forest on fire,” he suggested.

“Come on, be serious!” said Timothy.

“Lighting the forest on fire would be quite effective,” replied Thorongil, “why do you want to find an ent?”

“Aldamir really wants to meet one,” he replied.   
“I can't imagine why,” muttered Thorongil.

“You can't help us?” asked Timothy incredulously.

“If you are on a quest to befriend Ents, you do not want me around,” said Thorongil.

“Why?”

Thorongil slammed his fist on the table beside his seat. “Because they are cowards! I have no love for them and they none for me! Do you know how many of my eagles died in The War? Not to mention Elves and Men! We marched for the freedom of every soul in Middle Earth and they couldn't be bothered to join us. ‘It's not our fight’ they said. Those in Beleriand would have hindered us, too, had Yavanna’s wiser servants not intervened. Pity they didn't try…”

Timothy was completely speechless, his mouth agape. He never imagined the Valar’s servants quarreling.

Thorongil broke into laughter. “I guess you weren't expecting that! Should you really be surprised that fire and the forest don't get along?”

Thorongil rose and beckoned Timothy to follow. He went to a balcony high above the trees and whistled. A sparrow came up from to forest to sit on the railing.

“Any Ents about?” asked The Prince of Eagles.

The little bird gave him an answer in chirps.

“He says he hasn't seen any,” explained Thorongil.

“I don't suppose you could teach me to talk to birds?” asked Timothy excitedly.

Thorongil shook his head. “I'm sorry, I can not. Perhaps my wife can.”

Timothy spent the afternoon reading books in the tower’s library, which under Saruman had grown quite extensive, while his friends kept searching the forest. On the Palantír, written by Saruman himself, took up the most of his time. Despite his considerable education there were entire chapters he did not understand, and he only got a third of the way through the first volume.

The two maiar joined the five adventurers for dinner. The main dining room of Orthanc, with its black marble walls and high vaulted ceilings, made a fantastic backdrop for planning an adventure.

“I hear you have taken the paths of the dead?” inquired Thorongil. Timothy, Aldamir, Eddil, and Caranel all shivered in fear. Images of the monster prowling the dead city flashed before their eyes.

“I haven't,” replied Astra. “And though Aldamir won't tell me the whole story I hear there is something to be hunted in there.”

Caranel disagreed. “We can't go back there, it's guarded by something terrible. Something… undead.”

Thorongil grinned. “That sounds interesting.”

“We are not going back there!” declared Eddil confidently. “Right?”

Aldamir thought longingly of the gold they had left behind. Timothy suddenly realized that it would be an opportunity to see Eönwë fight and kill something truly dangerous, something no mortal had witnessed since the Edain of the First Age. Only Caranel agreed with her husband.

Eddil was completely dumbfounded. “Are you two seriously considering going back there? Have you forgotten what we went through that night!”

“If Thorongil thinks he can kill the beast…” began Timothy.

“Why should we expect that he can?” asked Caranel. Timothy winced at the question.

“You can't be sure,” replied Thorongil. “But I have slain many monsters over the years more dangerous than whatever you saw.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Eddil.

Thorongil leaned back in his chair. “Because you are here to tell me about it.”

“Can you be more specific?” asked Aldamir. “You have not told us much about your past.”

Thorongil smiled. “No I haven't,” was all the answer they got.

“We need to return to the King, so this whole question is moot!” claimed Eddil.

“Well we don't all need to return,” Timothy countered.

“Well if you expect a share of the reward from the King you ought to,” smiled Caranel.

“Perhaps another time,” said Aldamir to Thorongil.

“I don't see why you need to be there,” observed Thorongil.

“Hey, I want a share of that gold!” objected Aldamir.

“Are you planning to help kill the beast?” asked Thorongil.

“Well… no. But I found it first.”

Everyone laughed. It was late, so they resolved to rest the night and decide their course in the morning. When dawn came they resolved to return to the White City, though Thorongil suddenly realized a flaw in his planning: Thuringwethil had no horse, she had travelled to the Isengard in bat form. This clearly was not an option with the mortal adventurers present. He decided to say he would call an eagle for her, and have her fly back to Minas Tirith the next day.

Thorongil and the five adventurers rode back to Minas Tirith over the course of ten days. When they arrived Thorongil went immediately to report his success to Aragorn. The following morning Aldamir, and to his friends’ annoyance only Aldamir, was summoned to appear before the King.

After several hours of waiting patiently outside the Palace of the King, Princess Amdirien came to speak with Aldamir.

“I am afraid my father will be unable to see you,” she explained. “He has been in council with his generals since before dawn.”

Aldamir fell to his knee. “I understand, Your Majesty.”

“Thorongil reported your success. Do you have anything else to add?”

Aldamir suddenly realized they had not actually done anything more than ride to Isengard and back, so he shook his head.

“Thank you for your service,” said the Princess. “Please extend my gratitude to your friends.”

“The honor is to serve,” replied Aldamir. After the Princess had returned to the Palace he set off for his home to report to his friends that they were not getting a reward this time.

“Damn, I wanted that bow,” moaned Astra when she got the news.

“What bow?” asked Caranel.

Astra explained how she had tested a three millennia old elvish bow at a shop on the sixth level. Caranel had clearly heard of it.

“I know a few rangers who want that thing,” she said. “My money's on it going to Thorongil. If any royalty wanted it they would have it, and the King seems intent on showering Thorongil and Elerína with lavish gifts. I can't imagine what a room in the Palace would cost, if money could even buy that.”

“I wonder if even the King knows who they really are…” mused Eddil.

Aldamir nodded. “I think he does. My father told me that he heard rumor that when they first arrived Thorongil and the King nearly quarreled, until Elerína handed him a mysterious letter and somehow everything was cleared up.”

“What do you think, Tim?” asked Caranel. “You seemed to have a few theories about who they were back when we first met them.”

Timothy shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn't venture to guess.”

“Well that's a first!” laughed Eddil.

“I think you know, or at least you think you know,” said Caranel.

Timothy turned a bit pale. “It's clearly a secret, so it's unwise to guess just in case you get it right.”

Aldamir laughed. “You have absolutely no clue, and are just trying to make us think you are being secretive instead of clueless!”

Everyone else burst into laughter. Timothy sighed in relief. Aldamir for his part didn't believe a word of his own story; he had known Timothy for many years; they met as children after a history class at Minas Tirith’s library. Aldamir was three years his senior but could hardly keep up with Timothy’s incessant questions to their professor. They had been friends for seven years and Aldamir could tell that Timothy knew who their mysterious allies where. He could also see that he was terrified of revealing it, so he helped his friend evade the question.

Later that night, after Eddil and Caranel were gone, Aldamir slipped out of bed and into the guest room where Timothy slept.

“Tim!” he whispered from beside his bed. “Wake up!”

Timothy sat up, startled from a dream. “What do you want? Got another scheme to sneak into the library?”

It had been many years since that particular adventure went sideways.

“I can tell you know who Thorongil and Elerína are…” whispered Aldamir.

“What makes you say that?” replied Timothy.

“I have known you for a long time, and for all your cleverness you are a poor liar.”

“I can't tell you, Aldamir.”

“I don't expect you too; but you would tell me if they were a threat, either to us or the realm, wouldn't you?”

“What? Yes!” Timothy nodded. “The King is wise to keep them in the Palace.”

“Wise because they keep us safe or wise because he can keep an eye on them?”

“Gondor has never been as safe as it is with them in the Citadel,” whispered Timothy. “It is wise of the King to allow them use of his Palace because it is incredible that they have not returned to Mirkwood to live among elves!”

“Good, good,” replied Aldamir. “They are maiar, right?”

“Aldamir, please!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

Aldamir returned to his own room. “They are definitely maiar,” he muttered.


	8. Loyalty

A few days after their return to Minas Tirith Timothy was enjoying a quiet evening in the royal library when he was suddenly startled by Thorongil’s voice.

“Is it any good?”

Timothy nearly spilled his drink, which he had no business bringing into the library to begin with, all over a priceless relic of the second age.

“Of course!” he exclaimed in frustration before returning his voice to an acceptably quiet whisper, “of course it is good! It was written by Erestor of Rivendell. Do you have a reason for being here?”

Thorongil looked most amused by the question. “I thought I would spend my free time haunting the library instead of with my wife.”

Timothy rolled his eyes and turned back to his book.

“Elerína claims you are clever,” continued the maia shaking his head. “I've been looking for you, Timothy.”

“Why?” asked the scholar cautiously. Everything Thorongil did had a tendency to involve more danger than he was comfortable with.

Thorongil took a seat across from Timothy. “Does the name Ingacarca mean anything to you?”

“No?” replied Timothy, irrationally disappointed that there was something Thorongil knew which he did not.

“Don't feel too bad, it didn't mean anything to Elerína either,” replied Thorongil. “Orcish history is a rather uncommon field of study, though it is remarkably exciting. He was one of the first orcs Morgoth created, and legend has it he gladly accepted the changes made to him.”

Timothy had absolutely no clue where Thorongil was going with this, so he just nodded.

“I have reason to think he is alive, and possibly behind some of Gondor’s troubles,” continued the maia. “I want you to help me find him.”

Timothy turned pale as the snow on Mount Mindolluin. “Me? What could I possibly do to help?”

Thorongil grinned. “I need someone to do a little research for me. I may not be here to haunt the library, but a haunted library is involved. I want you to go to Minas Ithil and search the records stored there for mention of Ingacarca.”

“Records from … before the war?”

Thorongil grinned and nodded. “Records which the King’s own scholars sealed away. Only Lord Aragorn has dared enter the Lord of the Nazgûl’s record chambers. Tomes innumerable on the ruin of men and elves...”

“This sounds like a terrible idea!” squeaked Timothy.

Thorongil laughed. “Calm down, kid. They are just books - probably - and you are not going alone.”

Timothy tried to take a deep breath. “You're coming too?”

Thorongil shook his head. “No, I am going into Mordor. I am sending Gwethien with you, and hopefully that sorceress Mirumor, if I can convince her to go.”

“Gwethien and Mirumor!” objected Timothy, now wishing he was going alone. “You want me to go into the Witch-King’s inner sanctum with a Sauron worshipper and a … whatever she is?”

“What do you think she is?” asked Thorongil curiously.

Timothy felt he should choose his words very carefully. “A maia, like you?”

“Go on,” nodded Thorongil.

“I wouldn't know…” stammered Timothy.

“I think you do,” insisted Thorongil. “Tell me, what is Gwethien?”

“A vampire?” whispered Timothy.

“Correct,” replied Thorongil.

“Why is there a vampire in Minas Tirith?” whispered Timothy, figuring if he knew this much he might as well ask the obvious questions.

“That's not your concern,” laughed Thorongil. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they say…”

“That saying is often attributed to you!” laughed Timothy.

“It should be attributed to Melkor,” replied Thorongil. “It is good advice, though I would reply that I preferred my enemies dead.”

Timothy was at first shocked to hear Morgoth's original name, and even more surprised when he realized he and his friends had been deceived.

“You lied to us! The bites on the bodies on the road to Isengard, that was you - I mean her!”

“Indeed,” nodded Thorongil. “You five were not hard to convince.”

“Well I never expected Manwë’s Herald to be a liar,” replied Timothy, trying to defend himself and his friends.

“Excuse me?” whispered Thorongil.

“Sorry!” gasped Timothy. “I mean, I didn't expect you to be so good at it. You know what I mean, right?”

Thorongil laughed. “I can't believe you are my best choice for this mission.”

“That makes two of us!” agreed Timothy.

“So will you do it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Thorongil stood to leave. “You do.”

“If the battle for Gondor is to be fought in a library,” declared Timothy, “I shall be there to fight it!”

 

Late that evening Thorongil paid Gwethien a visit. She was in a back alley on the fourth level with Mirumor.

“This can't be a good sign,” chuckled Thorongil as a he walked up to them. “A vampire and priestess of darkness in a dark alley… planning a murder?”

“Nothing of the sort!” objected the vampire. We were…”

“Don't tell me!” interrupted Thorongil. “I would prefer plausible deniability.”

“Who are you?” asked Mirumor.

“This is Thorongil,” explained Gwethien. “He is not to be trifled with.”

Mirumor was not impressed. Without his armor Thorongil did not look particularly intimidating. “What exactly can he do, and why should I be concerned?”

Gwethien held her head in her hands.

“What I can do is irrelevant,” replied Thorongil softly. “A word to Gwethien and she’ll snap your neck before you can draw your dagger, useless though it would be.”

Before Thorongil had even finished speaking, Gwethien put her hand threateningly on Mirumor’s shoulder at the base of her neck. Her grip was cold as ice.

“Any more stupid questions?” she asked, showing her fangs. Mirumor emphatically shook her head. 

“Now that we have established that,” said Gwethien in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I have a task for you,” answered Thorongil, “both of you. I need you to visit Minas Ithil and search the Nazgûl’s library for any mention of Ingacarca.”

“The first orc?” interrupted Mirumor.

“Finally!” smiled Thorongil, “someone who recognizes that name!”

“When do we leave?” asked Mirumor excitedly, imagining the Nazgûl’s secrets locked away in Minas Morgul, untouched by the cowardly men of Gondor.

“I’m not sure; I need to obtain the King’s permission for you to be allowed into the depths of that tower,” replied Thorongil, “and you will be taking Timothy along with you.”

“The boy who helped rescue me from the tower?” asked Mirumor.

Thorongil nodded. “He’s well versed in lore and languages, and everyone in the Citadel will feel better with someone they trust on the mission. If anything happens to him, I will be in a lot of trouble...”

“I'll take good care of him!” Gwethien assured Thorongil. “He'll be safe with us.”

“I'm sure he feels safer already,” laughed Thorongil sarcastically. “He knows what you are.”

“Then he should feel very safe!” objected Gwethien.

 

The sun had long since set when Thorongil returned to the Citadel and joined his wife for a late dinner in the King’s own dining room.

“I assume they all agreed to go?” asked Elerína.

Thorongil nodded. “Timothy eventually worked up the courage. Mirumor was surprisingly eager.”

“Are you sure she should be going?”

“She actually understands what she is looking for,” noted Thorongil. “She knew the name Ingacarca immediately.”

“Well of course she did, she'd probably like to take his side.”

“Gwethien would kill her before she could, and Mirumor knows it.”

Elerína shuddered. “Do you not hear how horrible that sounds?”

“Gwethien won't betray us.” 

“I'm not talking about whether you can control them, I am talking about whether you should.”

Thorongil’s expression grew very grave. “As I see it there are three options. First, we could kill them - starting with Sauron. You spared him, and insist he will be useful, so that isn't viable. We can't kill Thuringwethil, and certainly not Mirumor, without killing Sauron - their crimes are nothing compared to his.”

Elerína nodded, so Thorongil continued.

“We could let them do as they please, so long as they don't harm anyone, but then if we die we leave the Free Peoples of Middle Earth with a collection of Morgoth’s former servants and no one to stop them…”

Elerína sighed.

“That leaves the third option, forcing them to help us and making sure they can't outlive you,” said Thorongil.

“But they are only helping us out of fear,” objected Elerína.

“Gwethien spent her entire life serving Morgoth in fear of his power, and commanding others who feared her’s,” Thorongil replied. “It’s all she knows. We can only hope she will appreciate fighting for something bigger than herself.”

“I don't have an answer, Thorongil, I just can't stand how scared she looks around us.”

“I think she is coming to trust me,” Thorongil answered.

“Maybe because you feed her!” snapped Elerína.

“So that is what this is about!” exclaimed Thorongil.

“You let her slaughter those bandits, even the one that surrendered!”

“Under the laws of Gondor and Rohan he would have been executed. He attacked us unprovoked, and he had seen Gwethien’s power first hand. Better to kill him there, especially given that Gwethien can not heal without feeding.”

Elerína was not content with that answer. “And when your new favorite weapon needs blood and there is no one you think deserves it conveniently at hand? What then, set her loose on the first level and tell her not to get caught?”

For a moment Thorongil's eyes flashed with genuine anger - something his wife had not seen since they had debated aiding the Noldor seven thousand years prior. “I have already faced that problem…”

Thorongil held out his left hand and pulled back his sleeve. His wrist showed a number of bite marks. “That's something else I hope she comes to appreciate: sacrifice.”

Elerína gasped. “I'm sorry, I didn't know! You should have told me!”

“Gwethien made me promise not to,” said Thorongil. “She's even more afraid of you than of me.”

Elerína tried her best to smile. “I guess you know what you are doing...”

“I wouldn't go that far,” he replied, “but I know whose side I'm on.”


	9. Opposition Research

Aragorn was as apprehensive as Timothy had been about letting a vampire and a Sauron worshipper into the depths of Minas Morgul, but Thorongil insisted it would lead to no trouble. Being loath to deny such a simple request, Aragorn gave him the key to the library beneath the Tower of the Moon. The next morning Thorongil, Gwethien, Timothy, and Mirumor rode to Minas Ithil as the first chill winds of winter stripped bare the beautiful trees of Autumn in Ithilien.

Thorongil parted with them at the bridge to Minas Ithil and causally began the ascent to Shelob’s lair. ‘He looks like he's off to tea and cakes’ thought Timothy. As soon as he left Gwethien’s demeanor changed; gone was cheerful, helpful Gwethien.

“Let's find some food,” moaned the vampire.

Both mortals stepped back.

“The kind you two eat!” she hissed.

Upon showing a letter from the King at the main gate the three travellers were permitted into the city. Over fifty years after the Witch-King’s death the tower was little more than a military outpost. Aragorn had initially intended to level the entire tower and everything about it, but that had proven infeasible. It was as unbreakable as Minas Tirith and Orthanc.

Few among the garrison dared wander the streets at night, where men swore they heard the whispers and cries of the dead echo from the very stone. Only a few civilians lived there, providing services to the King’s men, and they were well paid for their troubles.

They had no trouble finding food, though Gwethien had trouble paying for it - the maia had never before needed money. She had to borrow from Timothy who, knowing things rarely go as planned, brought enough for a stay of many nights. After a nice meal they were assigned lodgings by the captain of the guard. They received only two rooms, and Gwethien insisted on sleeping alone.

Shortly after midnight Timothy was awakened by the sound of the door closing. Mirumor was gone. Timothy slipped on his shoes and followed her into the darkness. She made her way to the base of the central tower of the city, wide at its base but tapering to a narrow tower whose crown sat seven hundred feet above the valley below. It was made of a white stone which glittered in moonlight and starlight.

More than once on the slow journey through the streets Timothy turned round, certain he had heard a voice. Mirumor heard the voices as well, and despite her worship of darkness found it disturbing. Around two hours after midnight she found what she sought: an unguarded entrance to the tower. She slipped silently up the the door.

“It's going to be locked,” whispered Timothy as Mirumor fiddled with the doorknob. She collapsed to the ground in fear and surprise, trying her best not to scream.

“What are you doing here!” she whispered through labored breaths as she tried to calm down.

“Following you, obviously,” replied the scholar.

Mirumor took from her belt a leather bound set of tools. “Keep watch.”

“We are not breaking into a Gondorian fortress!” objected Timothy.

“We aren't, I am,” said Mirumor. “You are just following me.”

Timothy rolled his eyes but did nothing to raise the alarm. He was as curious as she was what lay within the tower. It did not take Mirumor long to pick the lock.

“I’ll remember you can do that,” muttered Timothy.

“Good!” laughed Mirumor. “You find some doors that need opening and we can split the profits.”

Mirumor and Timothy cautiously stepped through the door and into the tower. It was extremely dark, but Mirumor had a tiny candle with her.

Timothy was genuinely impressed. “You really do come prepared.”

Mirumor and Timothy slowly made their way up through the tower. Mirumor seemed to know where she was going, much to Timothy’s confusion. He was about to ask her how she so confidently picked hallway after hallway that led them consistently to stairs leading upward when they reached a black door. Mirumor held up her candle and read the inscription: The Lord’s Armory.

“How did you know how to find this?” asked Timothy, stalling.

“The plans for this tower are in Minas Tirith’s library,” she replied.

“And you have access to the library?” asked Timothy.

Mirumor held up her lockpick set with a fiendish grin.

Timothy had no desire to see what lay within the Lord of the Nazgûl’s armory. “I am not going in there!”

“That's fine, I am sure you can find your way back down,” she giggled. Timothy did not find it funny.

The lock for the armory was much more formidable than that on the door by which they had entered the tower. Nevertheless Mirumor was able to open it after half an hour of effort and cursing. As the two explorers entered the armory they noticed the air was deathly still and cold as ice.

“This isn't natural,” whispered Timothy.

“Well I would be disappointed if it were,” replied Mirumor. “Don't touch anything; the blades are probably poisoned.”

Timothy nodded, shocked that Mirumor cared enough to warn him.

The little flame of Mirumor’s candle glinted on hundreds of weapons set on racks along every wall. A rack of knives was visible by their own cold, pale glow. Timothy drew out his stone and it gave off more light. There were racks of every type of weapon imaginable, and some they couldn't even recognize. On the far wall sat a collection of maces, in the middle of which one was clearly missing.

“I bet I know where that is,” mumbled Timothy, thinking of the vault below the Citadel of Minas Tirith where legend had it everything taken from the Nazgûl lay piled in a safe.

Timothy next noticed suits of armor displayed along the wall to his left, the center of which was again missing. About half were as he expected: black and menacing. The others surprised him; they looked fit for kings of realms fair and free, save that the helms covered the face completely. One in particular caught his attention, having the crest of Numenor’s royalty on its chest.

As Timothy examined the armor, Mirumor found a few items of interest to her, starting with the rack of daggers.

“Morgul Blades!” marvelled the sorceress.

Timothy was too busy with his own find to notice the famed knives of the Nazgûl. He had found a locked chest labeled ‘plague.’

 

After about half an hour in the armory, the two explorers decided to return to their room. They made it out of the tower thanks only to Mirumor’s exquisite sense of direction, but they had trouble remembering the way to their lodgings amidst the whisperings of the haunted streets. Fortunately they encountered a helpful guardsman who didn't question why they were out at two hours till sunrise.

Gwethien was in no rush to get to their assigned task, so she did not wake the two mortals in the morning. It was nearly noon when Mirumor and Timothy stumbled out of their room. After a quick meal they set off for the library beneath the tower. This time they were shown in by the main gate and unlocked the door to their destination with a proper key.

The record chambers of Minas Morgul were dark and covered in spider webs, though fortunately spiders of more manageable size than those that hunted in the tunnels to the east. Gwethien and Mirumor went searching through books while Timothy thought to look at maps, hoping to find one showing who ruled where. Timothy’s thought proved the more fruitful; he came across a map of the North in T.A. 1300. ‘Ingacarca?’ was hastily scribbled next to ‘Orc King’ beside the fortress of Carn Dûm.

Before Timothy had finished feeling proud of himself Gwethien and Mirumor found the records of the initial capture of Carn Dûm in T.A. 1302 by the Witch-King’s northern expeditionary force.

 

They told of a siege in the dead of winter. The Witch King’s army, mostly mercenaries and malcontents from the south and east, faced an unusually fierce band of orcs defending the castle, calling themselves ‘the fangs.’ Most orcs were easily subjugated by the power of his ring, but these were not so easily daunted. Their leader sent envoys offering an alliance, but the Witch King knew that he could not afford allies - he needed a swift victory to solidify his control over the frozen wastes of Angmar if he hoped to be ready for the inevitable attack that would come from Arnor in the Spring.

The siege lasted a few weeks before the technical skill of the southrons, who still remembered the arts of siegecraft of Numenor, proved too much for the old stone walls of Carn Dûm. Battle was joined, and in the courtyard of the fortress the future king of Angmar met his foe: a tall pale orc, fair of face save for many scars. There the greatest human swordsman since the days of Tour faced his mysterious foe, and to his amazement the orc had the mastery. The Witch King tried every spell he knew, spells that could lay low entire armies of orcs, and they did nothing. Eventually, thanks to the sacrifice of many of his soldiers, the orc king was beaten - but not killed. The Witch King had him entombed beneath the castle. He placed a curse upon him, a deathlike sleep for as long as the power of his ring endured. He wished to study him, and learn how his the orc withstood his magic and his blade. The answer he came to was that his foe was no orc - he was still an elf.

 

“So he is alive,” sighed Gwethien. “And with the power of the Rings broken he can once more rule the North.”

“Did you know him?” asked Mirumor.

The vampire shook her head. “Not well. He had little use for my kind. He believed Orcs were the future - a future with no maiar. But I knew of him. He was one of Melkor’s closest advisers.”

Having evidence that Ingacarca lived, the three adventurers prepared to leave when Mirumor found a hidden door in a corner of the record chambers. She called her companions over to examine it. Neither Timothy nor Mirumor could find any keyhole or mechanism to open it.

“It's a riddle…” said Gwethien. “I suppose you can't read it, since the runes don't reflect light your eyes can see. The Nazgûl were blind, you know, but it seems the Witch-King invented ink visible in his realm...”

“Well what does it say?” asked Timothy impatiently.

“In black speech it says, ‘The deadliest of foes, the last men face, which only nine have conquered, and I first of all.’”


	10. Trophies

“The deadliest of foes, the last men face, which only nine have conquered, and I first of all…” repeated Timothy over and over.

Gwethien was busy listing every dangerous creature she could think of, while Timothy and Mirumor shook their heads.

“Time!” shouted Timothy suddenly. “It’s time! Or maybe death...”

Mirumor jumped to her feet. “It'll be in Black Speech, and there is only one word for time in Black Speech. There are seventeen words for death.”

“What a strange riddle,” mused Gwethien.

“Maybe to you,” laughed Mirumor. “Your kind don't have to fear time!”

Mirumor spoke the proper word and with a rumble the stone door swung open. The air in the passage had the same eerie chill as the air in the armory they had visited the night before. Mirumor lit her candle and they began a descent down a spiral staircase of white marble. Timothy went first, followed by Mirumor, and then Gwethien.

“And here I was thinking all the black architecture was the scary stuff,” muttered Timothy as they walked. “It's actually worse when it looks vaguely beautiful and still feels haunted!”

Suddenly Timothy felt a hand on his shoulder and heard whispers in Black Speech. With a terrified scream he tried to pull away and would have tumbled down the stairs had a second hand not grabbed him.

“Calm down, calm down!” said Mirumor through hysterical laughter. She had handed her candle to Gwethien and grabbed the poor scholar for comedic effect.

“Don't do that!” exclaimed Timothy when he could breathe again. “You go first!”

Mirumor took the lead and though she would never admit it, she soon learned Timothy was right; the narrow white marble staircase was quite unsettling, far more than even the armory had been. After what felt like a hundred feet of descending they came to an unmarked doorway - or so the mortals believed. Gwethien could see the label above the door: ‘The Last Kings of the Edain.’

The door was unlocked and the three adventurers went through it. The mortals insisted Gwethien go first.

They stepped into a large octagonal chamber some fifty feet across made of the same white marble as the staircase. One of the eight walls, unbeknownst to them the eastern wall, contained in the center the door through which they stepped. In the middle of the open floor, upon a two foot tall dais, stood a black marble life size statue of a mighty king of men. He wore the crown of Numenor and in his right hand held a great mace while his left was empty but menacingly outstretched. It was not hard to guess who it must have depicted, but any doubt was laid to rest by the only part of the statue not made of the black stone: a golden ring with a red gem on its left hand. Mirumor knew the ring at once, for she had stolen the real thing from Barad-dûr. This was the Lord of the Nazgûl as he wished to be remembered.

After gazing in awe at the statue they noticed that each of the other seven walls around them contained a number of stone tables holding weapons, armor, and various other kingly artifacts. Looking higher they saw that in the center of each wall, raised four feet off the ground, there was a glass window perhaps three feet wide and eight high into a shallow coffin-like inset into the wall. In each there looked to be the body of a mighty warrior, preserved just as he had been on the day of his death.

At the sight of all this Timothy lost his nerve and turned to run. Gwethien grabbed him by the shoulders and held him still.

“The bodies aren't real, Timothy!” she claimed. “They are just illusions, trophies of the Nazgûl’s own making. I promise you the scariest thing down here is me!”

Timothy calmed down and took a closer look around. To their right, on the northern side, were walls dedicated to the three final kings of the kingdoms of Arnor: Arvedui King of Arthedain on the northernmost wall with the last kings of Cardolan and Rhudaur to his left and right. To their left on the southernmost wall was Eänur, the final ruling king of Gondor in the Third Age. To either side of Eänur were kings which Timothy could not recognize, but Mirumor did: they were kings of southern lands - one of Umbar, and another from even further south.

Timothy went up to Eänur’s wall and found that upon one of the stone tables sat a sword, and carved into the table was a label: ‘The Sword of Anárion.’ He went to take it but Gwethien counseled him against it, saying that only one with the right to take the sword, or with power enough to challenge the Nazgûl’s sorcery, should try to take treasure from this place. Timothy then went to the westernmost wall, which had been mostly hidden from view when the entered.

The western wall contained nothing within the glass nor on the tables, but upon examination Timothy saw the tables were already marked.

Timothy began reading to labels. “Narcil, The Scepter of Anuminas, The Ring of Barahir, the Crown of Gondor … Aragorn! This was supposed to be Aragorn!”

“That would have been his final victory,” said Mirumor.

“And had the hobbits been caught, our great king would have been just another trophy for the wraith,” added Timothy.

On that somber note the three adventurers left the Hall of the Nazgûl’s Triumphs, passed through the record chambers, and out of the tower, closing the doors behind them.

 

The sun had already set when Gwethien, Mirumor, and Timothy returned from their adventure deep within Minas Morgul. After a hot meal they went to their rooms to sleep.

“Are we sneaking anywhere tonight?” yawned Timothy.

Mirumor shook her head no. They were both exhausted. They slept through the night, though both had terrible dreams. The next morning as they prepared for the return journey Thorongil came striding up to them looking rather pleased with himself.

“The orcs of Cirith Ungol will think twice about sending anyone into the tunnel for a while, even if Shelob does probably get credit for my work,” he proclaimed proudly.

“Welcome back; it is so good to see you safe and sound,” said Gwethien, genuinely glad he was safe only because he stood between her and Elerína, who she feared more than he.

Timothy couldn't help laughing a bit under his breath. Gwethien heard and stared at him with a look that froze his heart.

Thorongil turned suspiciously to the vampire. “I hope Gwethien has been amicable in my absence.”

“We couldn't have succeeded without her!” answered Timothy, both because Gwethien had been helpful and he didn't want the vampire any more upset with him. “I would be happy to work with her again.”

“Good, good!” said Thorongil. “Well, I should find the commander of this tower and tell him what happened.”

“What did happen?” asked Mirumor, gesturing at Thorongil’s bloodsoaked armor.

“Oh nothing much,” replied Thorongil, whose false modesty was pathetically unconvincing. “I snuck into Cirith Ungol, interrogated some orcs, then decided to set fire to their alcohol. They were not at all pleased with that last bit, so about one hundred chased me into Shelob’s lair. I led them to a dead end tunnel, jumped up into a crevice in the ceiling to let them them all run past me, then dropped down and had them all trapped. I can see why Shelob likes that place!”

“You expect us to believe you killed one hundred orcs, alone?” chuckled Mirumor.

“You may believe whatever you wish,” laughed Thorongil, turning to leave them.

Timothy looked around to make sure no one else was nearby. “Before you go, there is something I need to tell you.”

Thorongil turned back.

Timothy pointed up at the central tower. “There is a chest in the armory up there labeled ‘plague.’”

“What were you doing in the armory?” asked Thorongil.

Timothy turned pale. “That is an excellent question! I would prefer you didn't ask it.”

Thorongil turned to the sorceress. “Mirumor, give me your pack.”

“I object to this unwarranted...” was as far as she got before Gwethien stepped menacingly up to her, licking her fangs.

“Here,” moaned the sorceress as she handed over the bag she carried.

“Don't reach in there, you might poke yourself,” she added, deciding that might help her case.

Thorongil drew out not one but two Morgul Blades wrapped in black cloth. He unwrapped one and examined it closely.

Thorongil looked threateningly at Mirumor. “I have always wanted to see one of these in action.”

Gwethien laughed and Timothy gasped. Mirumor shuffled backwards until she hit a wall.

Thorongil held the blade under her chin. “They say even a scratch from one of these will eventually kill you - or worse, depending on which stories you believe. Did you have anyone in particular in mind when you took them?”

“No!” squeaked the sorceress. Fortunately that was the truth, because she found herself unable to lie. “One to study, one to wear in place of my dagger.”

Thorongil was satisfied with her answer. “The next time you take something like this without asking, I'll test it on you!”

“I presume that if I tell you now about the crossbow I stole, you won't shoot me with it?” whispered Mirumor meekly.

“Crossbow?” exclaimed Thorongil. He lowered the Morgul Blade from her neck. “Where is that hidden?”

“Timothy’s pack,” she sighed.

Timothy was not at all pleased. “My pack! Do you know how much trouble I could have gotten into?”

“Well I certainly do now,” said Mirumor.

Thorongil took Timothy’s pack and pulled out a tiny crossbow. It was made of black metal, about sixteen inches long and a foot wide. It held a single dart with a hollow tip for poison.

Thorongil forgot his wrath as he marvelled at the weapon in his hands. “We should go to the armory.”

The garrison commander was loath to let him go up to the armory, but Thorongil was insistent. The man claimed that the key for that dreadful room was in Minas Tirith, but Thorongil said he could get in. Eventually the commander relented, though he insisted on escorting them up. As they came to the black door it dawned on Mirumor and Timothy that it would be unlocked, and it might become known that they had broken in.

“I'll handle this,” said Thorongil stepping ahead of the officer of Gondor and kneeling before the door. He whispered something from his native tongue into the lock and opened the door, much to the man's amazement. Tim and Mirumor sighed in relief, both sure that Thorongil had also realized the impending awkward situation. Upon seeing the door opened and feeling the chill air the officer took leave of them and returned to his office lower down in the tower.

“You’ll have to teach me that one,” giggled Mirumor.

“The words are ‘it’s already open,’ and it works in your tongue as well,” laughed Thorongil.

Timothy pointed out the chest labeled ‘plague.’ Thorongil gingerly examined the outside of the heavy looking box.

“Lockpicks!” demanded Thorongil. Mirumor unrolled her cloth bound tools and offered them to the maia.

“If I yell run, you run,” said Thorongil gravely. The two mortals nodded.

It took Thorongil only a minute to open the chest. Within it they saw small racks of glass vials containing black liquids. They were labeled in Black Speech.

“Gwethien, you are remaining here,” commanded Thorongil. “I'll send Elerína to deal with this. I won't risk moving this chest.”

Thorongil returned the Morgul Blades to their rack but clipped the small crossbow to his own belt and collected some extra ammunition.

Timothy once more admired the suit of armor in the style of the Numenorean kings of old. “Do you think you could break whatever curse the Witch-King placed on that?” he asked, pointing to the beautiful mithril and gold.

“You're not a warrior,” replied Thorongil perplexed.

“For Aldamir,” said Timothy. “He has always been so generous to me.”

Thorongil considered his request for a moment. “We'll have to ask the King if you can keep it.”

“He gets a whole suit of armor and I can't have a tiny crossbow,” complained Mirumor.

Thorongil smiled. “He asked.”

“May I please have the crossbow?” asked Mirumor, imitating Gwethien’s tone around Thorongil. The vampire was none too pleased with such mocking and hissed at her like a cat in displeasure.

Thorongil unclipped the weapon from his belt. “Only if you now work for me.”

Mirumor hesitated. On one hand, Thorongil did not seem to approve of theft or murder, not to mention that he had threatened to kill her with a Morgul Blade forty minutes prior. On the other hand, Mirumor did not have much respect for anyone who hadn't threatened to kill her, and staying on the right side of the law had its advantages so long as the business was profitable. Furthermore, Thorongil was powerful enough to frighten Gwethien and seemed to have sorcerous powers he might be willing to teach. Lastly,and this quickly dominated her calculus, she really wanted that crossbow.

“We’ll need to work out the details of such an arrangement,” she replied.

Thorongil nodded in agreement, but put the crossbow back on his belt.

While Gwethien remained to guard the chest the other three set off for Minas Tirith. It was late at night when they arrived in The White City, but Thorongil brought Timothy with him to report to the King. After explaining that Ingacarca was most likely alive, Timothy shyly asked His Majesty about the armor he wanted for his friend.

“What were you doing in the armory?” asked the King curiously.

Timothy froze in fear. Thorongil laughed heartily.

“That is an excellent question!” the maia answered, quoting Timothy. “We would prefer if you not ask it.”

Aragorn leaned back in his throne and rolled his eyes. “Very well. You are asking for a mighty gift, Timothy.”

The scholar lowered his head in defeat. “Yes Your Majesty...”

“And yet who among your servants would dare retrieve it, or wear that which Sauron forged for his deadliest servant?” interrupted Thorongil with a cunning smile. “I do not see that it has much value to you unless I take it…”

“You always have an answer, don't you?” chuckled the king. “One day I will catch you without a good response ready.”

“Melkor used to say that all the time,” smiled the old general. “Look where that got him.”

Aragorn laughed merrily. “I will give the armor to you, and you may give it to whomever you wish. My daughter wants a favor from you, please consider her request.”

“Yes Sir,” nodded Thorongil. He and Timothy left the throne room and walked out into the Fountain Court where Elerína was waiting for them under the stars.

Elerína rushed to embrace her husband but stopped just short of him upon seeing the blood stains on his armor. “Welcome home! I presume you were successful, and from the looks of it you had a good time.”

“I'm getting stronger,” he smiled. “One hundred seventeen kills and not a scratch. But I think Timothy had even more fun; he broke into the armory at Minas Morgul.”

“He what?” exclaimed Elerína.

“Traitor,” muttered Timothy as Thorongil cackled to himself.

“Well you see, Mirumor broke in and I sort of… followed her…” explained Timothy.

Elerína was not impressed. “Oh, so it's her fault?”

“No, but...” stammered poor Timothy.

“Don't worry, I know who's fault it is!” smiled Elerína. “Clearly my husband is a terrible influence on you.”

“Absolutely - and much more fun,” Thorongil nodded. “It's a good thing they did, because they found vials of plague. You and I need to deal with it. The sooner the better!”

“We can go first thing tomorrow,” said Elerína.

 

The next morning Elerína and Thorongil rode to Minas Morgul, where Elerína unveiled her power and cleansed the Witch-King’s vials of disease. They returned late the next night with Gwethien and the armor Timothy wanted to give Aldamir.


	11. Religious Studies

Mirumor stood alone in a dark room lit only by candlelight, staring intently at her knife with her arm outstretched and her back to the door. A number of books on sorcery were strewn about, open to various pages covered in ominous looking diagrams and writings. Suddenly the knife leapt from the floor.

Her joy turned to confusion as it flew not to her hand, but rather past her and out the door. She turned around to find Thorongil leaning on the doorframe, laughing hysterically at her, the knife in his hand above his head.

“That was just cruel,” she laughed.

“I will never understand your kind’s fascination with making things move by themselves,” said Thorongil. “I am told that Gandalf became a legend in the Shire for, out of all his deeds, making a pair of diamond studs that only unfastened themselves when ordered.”

Thorongil tossed the would-be sorceress her knife. “Wouldn't it be infinitely easier to just… carry two knives?”

She rolled her eyes. “Probably, but not nearly as fun. Did you have a reason for being here?”

Thorongil looked puzzled. “People keep asking me that. Unless my wife is around, the answer is almost always yes.”

“Well?”

“You wanted this,” he replied, holding up the small crossbow she tried to steal from Minas Morgul.

“Name your price,” nodded Mirumor eagerly.

“First of all, you stay out of trouble.”

“As in ‘don't get caught?’” asked Mirumor with a wink and a wry smile.

Thorongil did not look impressed.

Mirumor sighed. “If you don't want me as a spy, a thief, or an assassin, why do you want my help?”

“You're not afraid of the dark,” replied Thorongil.

“I assume you mean that metaphorically,” nodded Mirumor. “I suppose I’m not opposed to working within the law, but I expect to be well paid. Experts in the dark arts are hard to find...”

Thorongil tossed Mirumor a small bag. She opened it and found the strangest assortment of solid gold coins from cultures past and present. There weren't many, but each was easily worth a month’s wages.

“What do you think that's worth in this city?” asked the maia.

“Enough to buy my services!” smiled Mirumor. “I didn't realize the King paid so well.”

Thorongil shook his head. “The King has nothing to do with it - that came from Cirith Ungol.”

“You get to keep your loot! Do I get what I find?”

“Only if I don't want it,” winked Thorongil. “And don't let anyone know.”

“Now that sounds like someone I would work for,” grinned the thief.

“Best of luck with... this,” snickered Thorongil as he turned to leave, pointing to the books and candles.

“Hey, aren't you forgetting something!” objected Mirumor.

Thorongil took the tiny crossbow from his belt. “If you shoot anyone you shouldn't with this, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble. Just remember: you may have a shiny new crossbow, but I have a vampire - and she is always hungry.”

 

Elsewhere in the city Aldamir was playing detective. He was determined to figure out who Thorongil and Elerína were, if only because Timothy had done so. Astra, who had spent most of the day at a shooting range while Aldamir read books, joined him for dinner.

“You look miserable,” observed Astra.

“The elves left us depressingly little knowledge of the Ainur,” moped Aldamir.

“Perhaps you should go listen to the knowledge of those who want to talk about the... ‘Ainur,’” suggested Astra, uncomfortable referring to her gods by a foreign name.

“What do you mean?”

“Go to the temples,” said Astra. “That's what my mother used to tell me to do when I needed insight. Of course, I always went to the shooting range instead, but…”

“I am not going to the temples!”

 

The next morning, at the crack of dawn when he hoped nobody would be there, Aldamir slinked down to the first level and out into the wooden town beyond the main gate.

He went first to the ‘elven’ temple. Such a thing is a misnomer; the elves of western Middle Earth have never worshipped the Valar, nor have they engaged in organized religion in the way eastern men have done since Morgoth first corrupted them. When the Numenoreans first came to Middle Earth as conquerors they recognized the need to stifle the worship of Sauron, their great enemy. While some men did abandon their ways and accept the Numenorean understanding of the Powers, others clung to their rituals and customs. The Numenoreans realized it might be necessary to allow some formal worship, so they permitted some houses of worship which incorporated their own names and beliefs about the Valar and their servants, and demonized Morgoth and his successors.

Aldamir was impressed by the stain glass windows and paintings in this first temple. They depicted the Valar as the benevolent protectors of men and elves. An old man, who looked at least eighty and walked with a heavy limp and cane, paced from window to window.

“Can I help you?” he asked as Aldamir wandered idly, not sure why he was there.

“I'm not sure,” he answered. “How did you come to work here?”

“I have seen the power of the Ainur first hand,” said the man. “I saw them save this city.”

“Oh really?” asked Aldamir, hoping his derogatory skepticism wasn't audible. It was, and the man's face showed it.

The old man shook his head. “You children don't know how lucky you are. A few orcs take back the Black Gate and everyone is nervous. I was there...”

The man shuttered and took a deep breath. “I was there when dawn never came. I remember wondering if we would ever see the sun again. I saw the great gates shattered, and the shadow ride through the archway no foe had ever passed, and all the men with me cowered or ran for our lives, leaving only The White Rider to face it.”

The old man smiled. “But then, when all seemed lost, even as the terror from Mordor told Mithrandir that it was his hour, the heavens betrayed Sauron and his spell was broken. As my friends and I picked up our spears and ran to Mithrandir’s side I knew that when the war was over I wanted to devote my life to Manwë, Lord of the Skies.”

Aldamir stood speechless and ashamed.

“Is that a good reason to work in a temple?” asked the man.

Aldamir nodded.

“So I ask you again, why are you here?” smiled the old man.

“I am looking for knowledge, and books have failed me,” he replied. “Which of the maiar are married?”

“Ossë and Uinen are the most famous maiar couple,” began the old man.

“I know their tale,” interrupted Aldamir. “It isn't them.”

“It?”

Aldamir quickly crafted a lie. He hoped Thorongil and Elerína would be proud of him figuring out their identities, but he knew they would be angry if he helped anyone else do it.

“Images from a dream,” he said. “A great warrior and a noble woman, perhaps a sorceress…”

“That isn't much to go on,” chuckled the man. “There are many great warriors among the Powers. Most of what we know of them comes from stories of war.” 

“Is Ilmarë married?” asked Aldamir. He desperately hoped that Elerína would be Ilmarë - for his best friend's sake, and because it would make the best story.

“Legends say she is married to Eönwë, who would certainly qualify as a great warrior,” answered the veteran.

“What is known of Ilmarë?”

“Very little, for she is not listed among those who fought in the War of Wrath,” sighed the old man. “She is sometimes considered the patron of learning and knowledge, or of politicians and royalty, or of the performing arts. My predecessor used to say that if all those were true, that would make her the ‘goddess of civilization.’ I once met a young man who went on a tirade saying that to call her the ‘goddess’ of anything was a great insult, for she of all the Ainur would disavow their worship. Either way, we give donations in her name to Minas Tirith’s lower level schools.”

Aldamir wonder if Timothy had been the young man in the story. He went to a window dedicated to the heroes of the War of Wrath. Imagery of Eönwë, Oromë and Tulkas glowed radiantly as the light of the morning sun streamed in. To their right was an eagle - Aldamir rightly guessed this was Thorondor - and to their left a lioness. Around them were countless heroes of old, but to Aldamir’s disappointment none of them wore black armor, or carried a red sword.

Aldamir left the temple after giving the old man some silver for his time, to which the old man joked that it wasn't often people left offerings for him. Afraid to go to the northmen’s temple for fear that Astra might be there and learn that he took her advice, he went next to the temple of Rhûn. It felt very dark and dreary after the beautifully bright and airy temple he had just visited.

It was clean and elegant, yet also ostentatious in its copious use of gold - a mineral their homeland’s mountains, combined with a history of slave labor, provided in relative abundance. It consisted mostly of a main hall filled with metal statues and effigies at which one would leave offerings to their gods - mostly interpretations of the Valar, though for some like Manwë they had both benevolent and malicious deities for different seasons and weather. Aldamir found it an interesting study in Rhûnic culture but not at all helpful to his current quest. He was about to leave when he noticed a doorway blocked by black curtains. A golden eagle with blood soaked talons adorned them. Outside was a bowl filled with coin, clearly meant for offerings before going inside. He meandered over to the doorway.

“Welcome, traveler,” said a man with a thick Rhûnic accent. He wore elegant robes, and Aldamir correctly guessed him to be the proprietor of the establishment. Aldamir knew enough from his work as a merchant to greet the man in the custom of his own land, which pleased the priest to no end.

“What's in there?” asked Aldamir unceremoniously, pointing to the curtains.

The priest looked uncomfortable with such a terse question. “That is the shrine to Vultur.”

“Who is he?” asked Aldamir.

The priest looked around suspiciously, as though he expected such ignorant questions to bring down the wrath of the gods.

“Vultur is the god of war and death!” he whispered hurriedly. “He is the commander of their army, though he needs little help to slaughter men and orcs.”

“Why is his shrine separate?”

“Because Vultur is not to be approached unless at great need, or by his own servants,” explained the priest. “Most never enter his shrines, for to anger him is to invite ruin and death upon all. They leave offerings to the other gods and ask them to restrain his wrath.”

“Then why have a shrine to him at all, if most won't use it?” asked Aldamir.

“To not do so would be a great insult to Vultur!” gasped the man. “More immediately, it would anger those who worship him, and that is very foolish. The Coven of Vultur are the last people you want to make angry. They have a tendency to burn down temples they find lacking… quite often with the priests inside.”

Aldamir couldn't stand the thought of leaving without knowing what that shrine looked like. “May I see it?”

Rhûnic custom forbade the priest from refusing Aldamir entry into any shrine, so the priest nervously dropped a great number of coins into the offering bowl for himself and gestured to Aldamir to do the same.

“How much?” asked the young merchant.

“What? You aren't buying anything. Vultur expects whatever you can afford and a fair price for his attention and favor...”

“But I just want to look around,” interrupted Aldamir. He dropped a couple silver coins into the bowl.

“Gods preserve us!” muttered the priest. He took a second handful of coins from his pocket and added them to the bowl. “For this fool...”

The priest pulled back the curtain and Aldamir stepped in. The room was dimly lit by candles and a small fire. Before him on a gold plated pedestal stood a small statue of a warrior in armor black as the night. In his right hand was a sword that glinted red, courtesy of shards of ruby embedded in the blade. In his left he held a single silver dagger. If any legends of the past told of Thorongil, this surely was it! Adorning the walls sat paintings of the god of death killing various legendary monsters, as well as kings of men.

“Wow,” was all Aldamir could muster at first. “In the naming of the gods used by the elves and men of the West, who is Vultur?”

“I am told he would be ‘Eönwë,’ but the stories are different,” replied the man. That was certainly true. It did not immediately occur to Aldamir that many of the ancestors of the Easterlings had fought for Morgoth, not the armies of the West, and thus they had known Eönwë as an enemy. He and his legions had mercilessly laid waste to entire armies of mortal men.

Aldamir felt he had his answer. Elerína must be Ilmarë, which would explain Tim’s loyalty to her and in why Tim’s father had given him his first sigil. Thorongil was Eönwë, which explained why Shelob feared to face him. This would also explain why the king showered them with gifts, especially if it secure their continued aid.

 

Aldamir confronted Timothy will his conjecture over lunch.

“Please don't do this,” begged the scholar, torn between his promise to the maiar that he would preserve their secrecy and honesty to his closest friend. Aldamir pressed the issue and Timothy stormed out.


	12. The Good Balrog

“We had the strangest visitors today,” said Aldamir’s mother to her son as they sat around the dinner table. “A young couple by the names of Elerína and Thorongil. I know you've mentioned them before...”

Toldor, Aldamir’s father, nearly leapt out of his seat in surprise. “Elerína was here?”

“Is that a problem?” asked Aldamir.

“Well, no,” stammered the merchant. “But I would prefer not to be associated with them.”

“And why is that?” asked his son.

“Because the council don't like them,” replied Toldor. “They say that Elerína has Amdirien’s - forgive me, Princess Amdirien’s - ear in all matters now, and Lord Aragorn showers Thorongil with gifts fit for a king.”

“You do realize that each of them have saved me and my friends from certain death!” exclaimed Aldamir, growing angry with his father. “Who on the council has stared down Shelob, or driven back the monsters in The Paths of the Dead?”

“I do not deny their usefulness, nor would I question the King’s wisdom in keeping them here. I simply do not want to be associated with them. Let the Lords and Ladies of the Citadel keep to their own business, I say. I have no desire to be caught up in their games.”

“Well I know them, and hope to someday be called their friend,” proclaimed Aldamir defiantly.

“What did they want?” Toldor inquired.

“Apparently Timothy went to Minas Morgul and found something Aldamir might want,” answered his wife. “The King gave it to Thorongil…”

Toldor rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised.”

“...and Thorongil wishes to offer to Aldamir, as was Timothy’s intent,” she explained.

“Be careful, son,” warned Toldor. “Don't be too quick to enter into dealings with those of far greater influence than yourself.”

Aldamir shook his head. “You didn't raise me to be cautious.”

“I raised you to sell cloth,” laughed the old man. “Just be careful.”

“I'm always careful,” laughed Aldamir.

“Then why do these new friends of the king keep rescuing you from certain death!” cried his mother.

 

That evening Timothy and Amdirien were to dine with the maiar. Both hoped to win favors from Thorongil. Timothy was horribly uncomfortable sitting in the palace dining room beside royalty, waiting for the maiar to join them.

“How have you been, Timothy?” asked the Princess, breaking the silence and trying to be polite.

“Fine, Your Majesty!” exclaimed Timothy so startled he nearly fell out of his chair. The Princess couldn't help but laugh.

“I intimidate you?” asked Amdirien. “You have explored Minas Morgul and the Paths of the Dead! The most powerful Ainur in Middle Earth, whose power rivals the Valar themselves, looks out for you!”

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty,” answered a downcast Timothy, before smiling a little. “That's a very flattering description of me. Thank you.”

“Are you here for anything in particular?” asked Amdirien.

“I am hoping to convince Thorongil to allow my friend Aldamir to know who he is,” explained Timothy. “He's already guessed their identities. He thinks life is a fairy tale, and was bound to guess Elerína is in fact Ilmarë, my longtime protector.”

Amdirien nodded. “I remember Aldamir. He seems like a good man. He'll be a great knight of the realm someday.”

“He'd be very proud to hear you say that.”

“Then tell him,” smiled the Princess. “I also am here to ask a favor of Thorongil...”

Before she could continue, the two maiar came to join them. They ate without posing their requests, hoping the old soldier would be more amicable after a good meal.

“I think both my students have favors to ask of you,” said Elerína cautiously. “Please hear them out.”

“Given that you haven't simply told me to do whatever it is they want, these must be large favors,” replied Thorongil.

Amdirien gestured to Timothy to go first.

“I need you to tell Aldamir who you are,” said the scholar. “He already realizes you must be maiar. He knows Ilmarë has protected me for years, and yesterday he rightly guessed your identities. I can't lie to him...”

“Why not?” interrupted Thorongil. “I lie to you people all the time.”

“Husband!” gasped Elerína. “That's not very nice.”

Thorongil turned to his wife. “You think this is wise?”

Elerína nodded. “You trust him, don't you?”

“Fine, fine,” sighed Thorongil. “You know, Olorin was in Middle Earth for centuries and no one knew who he was!”

Elerína burst into laughter at the idea of following in the grey pilgrim's footsteps. “I am not a wanderer!”

Amdirien asked her question next. “I am scheduled to give a speech next week - a big one - and…”

The Princess paused. Timothy wondered what she could want that would have her so nervous.

Amdirien took a deep breath. “...and my banner bearer is sick.”

Thorongil was struck speechless at the thought that he, Herald of the High King of Arda, was being asked to serve as banner bearer for a mortal Princess.

“Please!” begged Amdirien.

“At least she appreciates your historical significance,” chirped Timothy, hoping to help Amdirien’s cause. She pointed to him and nodded.

“The arrogance, the vanity...” exclaimed Thorongil. “You want me, Manwë’s Herald, to act as yours? Purely so you can say that I did it? So that the answer to ‘Who has Eönwë held banners behind?’ is ‘Manwë, Varda, Ilmarë, and you?’”

Amdirien, fully committed to her course, grinned and nodded vigorously. “Yes! Please? I'd be in your debt…”

“Oh you most certainly would!” laughed Thorongil. “Do you realize there are few even among the Valar for whom I would acquiesce to such a request?”

To that last sentence Amdirien had no answer. “Well you can't blame me for trying,” she said meekly.

Thorongil turned to his wife.

“Don't look at me!” Elerína laughed. “I told her it was unlikely.”

“Please!” begged the Princess, hoping to win him over by sheer determination and the innocence of her request.

Leaning back in his chair Thorongil slowly smiled. “I have always appreciated bravery and defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Were I in your place I would probably be asking for the same thing…”

“That isn't a no..." observed Timothy.

Thorongil leaned forward and stared straight at Amdirien with such a piercing gaze the mortal felt it might push her off her chair. “Someday my wife may need something from you. When she comes to you, wanting something impossible, you owe her for this.”

Amdirien was ecstatic. “Yes sir! Thank you Captain!”

“Manwë, Varda, Ilmarë, and Amdirien,” mused the Princess. “I like it.”

 

The next morning Aldamir was summoned to the Citadel where Timothy led him to the tip of the great spur of rock upon which it was set, where Elerína stood looking out upon the Pelennor. Her husband stood with her.

Elerína, always the showman, turned dramatically to face him. “Hello Aldamir.”

“Hello,” he replied with an awkward wave. “How may I be of service, ma’am.”

“Timothy says you have been asking who we are,” began Elerína.

Aldamir looked down in shame. “Well, yes ma’am,” he answered.

“Tell him, Timothy,” smiled the maia.

Timothy was taken aback. “Me?”

“No, the other Timothy" quipped Thorongil.

Timothy rolled his eyes and turned to Aldamir.

“Aldamir, these are Ilmarë, Handmaiden of Varda and Eönwë, Herald of Manwë.”

Despite having guessed the truth, Aldamir wasn't quite ready for it. He didn't know whether to salute, or kneel, or bow. All he could manage was to whisper “Varda preserve us.”

“That is why we're here, yes,” laughed Thorongil.

“Why?” asked Aldamir, unable to form a coherent question.

“Based on all evidence to date? To rescue you and your friends from various dangers,” replied Thorongil.

Aldamir blushed and knelt before the maiar. “Never have I heard tale of ones so great who did so much for those so undeserving. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” nodded Elerína.

“Can Astra know?” asked Aldamir, thinking of her worship of the ainur.

“In due time,” answered Elerína. “In the meantime, Timothy and Thorongil brought something back from Minas Morgul for you.”

Elerína turned back to the Pelennor while Timothy and Thorongil led Aldamir into the barracks of the Citadel guard. In the main training room, which was an open room with a dirt floor that took up most of the first story of the building, a table held the pieces to the most beautiful set of armor Aldamir had ever seen.

“Forged by Sauron for his greatest servant, the one they said no living man could kill,” announced Thorongil dramatically.

Aldamir took a frightened step back. “Are you sure it's safe?”

Thorongil nodded. “Yes. Mostly.”

“Fortune favors the bold,” muttered Aldamir. He removed his coat and with some help put on the armor.

“It weighs nothing!” he exclaimed. He picked up the cloak that went with it. “What is this made of!”

“The armor is an mithril alloy,” explained Thorongil. “The cloak is something truly special - metal weaved into cloth - I know only of only four who mastered that art.”

“You will give us the list, right?” asked Timothy after a long pause, intently curious.

“Aulë, Sauron, Fëanor, Yúlië.”

Timothy recognized three of the four.

The armor was a bit too big for Aldamir, much to his disappointment.

“Give it a minute,” counseled Thorongil.

Aldamir didn't understand. “What do you mean?”

Within a minute the armor had shrunk down to Aldamir’s size.

“Sauron’s creations tend to do that,” said Thorongil.

Aldamir took his sword and practiced a few swings. Thorongil went to a rack on the wall and took a blunt sword. “Attack.”

Afraid of hurting Thorongil, Aldamir turned to get a similar weapon.

“With your good sword,” commanded the maia.

“But what if…” objected Aldamir.

“If you can hurt me, we have bigger problems!” laughed Manwë’s Herald.

Aldamir nodded. “I suppose so.”

The two fought for a few minutes. Aldamir felt awkward fighting in what felt as light as ordinary clothing.

“You need better training,” said Thorongil, kicking Aldamir to the dirt floor of the training room for the third time.

“I've had the best instructors money can buy,” sighed Aldamir.

“I don't take coin,” smiled Thorongil.

“You'd teach me?” gasped Aldamir. “Next time the festival in Dol Amroth comes around I am going to kick Eddil’s…”

“If you want the armor, you need to learn how to use it,” nodded Thorongil. “Also, that sword simply won't do.”

“I get a new sword!” he exclaimed with glee.

“Perhaps I can do something with that one,” Thorongil replied, taking Aldamir’s elven blade. “You don't have any emotional attachment to this, do you?”

“Not really,” replied Aldamir. “Why?”

Thorongil spoke words of ancient power as he brushed his hand along the flat of the blade. He turned the sword over and repeated his work. Aldamir and Timothy stared intently at the weapon, unsure what would happen.

“Is it supposed to do something?” whispered Timothy.

Thorongil rolled his eyes. He picked up the blade and put Aldamir’s hand on the hilt, saying more words of power.

‘I really need to learn Valarin,’ thought Timothy.

Apparently content with his work Thorongil stepped back. Aldamir stood silently staring at the blade. Soon he saw countless tiny points of light appear, as runes slowly formed on both sides of the sword.

“New plan!” suggested Aldamir, only half joking. “We sell enchanted swords and make more money than we know what to do with.”

Timothy was equally impressed and very excited to have seen Thorongil use his power. His favorite stories of the elder days were full of such displays, and he wished Elerína weren't always so subtle with her gifts.

Aldamir’s jest received no answer and his mirth was extinguished as Thorongil drew his real sword and his black armor materialized upon him.

“Try again,” he commanded.

Pointing to the rack of training weapons, Aldamir hesitated. “I’d feel a whole lot better if you were using one of those!”

“Now!” roared the maia.

Aldamir quickly noticed the changes to his blade. It seemed to change weight as he fought with it, light as a feather as he prepared to swing and then heavy as a great-sword as he swung a blow. “Well this is certainly different.”

“Fëanor first developed the art, as he did with so many,” explained Thorongil. “It was the only way he could effectively fight with Balrogs and Trolls.”

Aldamir jumped with joy. “You are going to teach me how to fight Balrogs!”

“Patience, patience,” laughed the maia. “Let's start with learning how to fight me.”

“Well you're kind of a Balrog, right?” claimed Aldamir, trying to feel important.

Timothy grinned, seeing his chance to return the maia’s incessant teasing. “Of course! He's the subject of the classic elven children's book: The Good Balrog.”


	13. Heroes of Gondor

It was cold. It was windy. It was raining. His armor didn't fit properly. Thorongil was miserable. Amdirien, by contrast, was enjoying every minute of her day with Eönwë as her herald.

“One last stop,” said the Princess, all but skipping down the streets of her city.

“Is this what you do all day, just follow Amdirien around from one boring appointment to another?” whispered Thorongil to his wife.

“Just because you don't appreciate courtly duties doesn't mean this isn't important, exciting work,” replied Elerína.

“I can not wait to get out of this armor,” muttered Thorongil. “It's made of steel! Steel!”

“You want to take armor off? Usually I have to tell you you aren't allowed to wear it!” laughed Elerína.

“My armors in Valinor are the finest garments I could ever ask for. My black armor is a manifestation of my thought. This, by contrast, feels like wearing a barrel.”

“Well we're almost done,” replied Elerína, rolling her eyes. “It is hard to believe you used to spend weeks behind enemy lines hunting our most dangerous brethren. How was that not infinitely more uncomfortable?”

“I had an important purpose. And my armor. And my wings!”

After one final speech Amdirien and her maiar companions returned to the citadel under the last light of the sun.

“Thank you so much for today,” said the Princess. “It meant a lot to me…”

“You're welcome, Your Majesty,” replied Thorongil with a bow. “I know it did. That's why I did it.”

“Go change into something comfortable, darling,” said Elerína, at which Thorongil left in a hurry. “We’ll go for dinner in a hour.”

Elerína turned to her young friend. “You know, I haven't heard my husband call anyone ‘your majesty' since we left Manwë and Varda on the docks of Tirion.”

Amdirien swooned. “I wish I could repay him.”

“He made it clear what he expected,” smiled the maia. Thorongil had made it clear it was Elerína who Amdirien owed the favor.

“I still wish I could give him something,” sighed the Princess.

Elerína had no suggestions. “Perhaps you'll get a chance.”

 

The next morning Timothy and Eddil both went to watch Aldamir train with Thorongil. This was Eddil’s first chance to see Aldamir’s new armor. He was intensely jealous, but happy it kept his mind off Caranel who had recently been sent back to the front. Word had come to Eddil from some friends of his in Faramir’s Hall that an offensive was planned for that very evening. At dawn the next day five hundred of Gondor’s finest, led by Aderthon and Captain Anders, would attack the ruins of the Black Gate.

About two hours into their lesson Aldamir was too exhausted to continue. Thorongil ended their lesson and his armor dissolved away, replaced by simple, if expensive, clothes.

“Do you think the attack on the Black Gate will succeed?” Eddil suddenly asked, interrupting Thorongil’s final advice to Aldamir.

Thorongil was concerned that Eddil had any idea an attack was planned. “How do you know about that!” he snapped.

“I have my sources,” replied Eddil.

“Not for long, if I can help it,” replied the maia.

Timothy was now curious too. “Well?”

“It's a bold strategy,” answered Thorongil, who had seen the most recent drafts of Aderthon's plan. He would have said more but Lady Amdirien arrived.

“Captain Thorongil, any thoughts on tonight’s attack?” she asked concernedly.

“And how do you know about… well I suppose it makes sense that you might know,” sighed Thorongil. “As I was saying, it's a bold plan that relies on Aderthon breaking through the center of the enemy’s lines before the rangers on the flanks can be overwhelmed…”

Suddenly another visitor stepped through the door to the training room: Eldarion, Aragorn’s first born, Crown Prince of Gondor and The North. He wore gilded armor of mithril and a cape of black satin with the White Tree proudly shimmering upon his back. At his side hung a beautiful sword whose hilt matched Thorongil’s for jeweled vanity.

“Clear the floor!” cried the Prince of Gondor with a grin. “My sister mentioned I might find you here, Thorongil.”

Aldamir, Eddil and Timothy scurried to Amdirien’s side as Eldarion drew his sword and stepped into the dirt that covered the middle of the hall. The Prince looked as though he meant to say something suitably grandiose in challenge to the maia but paused awkwardly.

“They all know who I am,” smiled Thorongil, guessing the Prince's apprehension.

Eldarion laughed. “Good! For fifty years my father has told me how he used to spar with Glorfindel in Rivendell! I will not have it said that while Eönwë, Manwë’s Herald and Varda’s Champion lived in my city and I did not face him in honorable combat!”

“I do not think this is wise,” replied Thorongil politely.

“Afraid of losing to a mortal?” mocked the Prince, hoping to irritate the maia sufficiently.

Thorongil threw out his arms and in an instant his armor sprang upon him as countless pieces of the strange black metal were pulled from the air around him. His eyes glowed red and the light in the hall dimmed for a moment. “I don't want anyone accusing me of hurting a child.”

Amdirien gasped as she stepped back against the wall in fear. She had no experience in the presence of such menacing power. Her brother, who had faced a Balrog and other monsters in the east, laughed merrily. He would get his chance to spar with history’s most accomplished duelist.

“Be careful,” warned the maia.

The two warriors fought for a while. They were both artists with the blade, true masters who knew how to fight without risking lethal injury to the other. Amdirien could not decide whether she was hoping her brother would win or lose.

Aldamir marvelled at the Prince's speed and finesse. After weeks of training under Manwë’s Herald he had been wondering just how far he was from the skill of Gondor’s great heroes - clearly, he was still a long way off.

After about a quarter of an hour the two combatants began to tire, and their strokes grew slowly less precise. Suddenly Thorongil leapt back from the Prince and held up his hand.

“Enough,” he declared.

“You surrender?” asked Eldarion, laboring for breath.

“No, but if we continue, one of us may be injured,” replied the maia.

“If you call it off, I win!” said Eldarion defiantly.

Thorongil raised his sword as though he meant to carry on, but slipped his left hand behind his back. “We're playing to first blood?”

“That's fine,” nodded the Prince, raising his sword as well.

Hardly had Eldarion finished speaking when with a movement quick as lightning Thorongil threw a silver dagger. It sailed just past Eldarion's right cheek and with incredible force embedded itself into the stone wall fifty feet behind him.

“Done,” he laughed.

Eldarion looked puzzled, but a second later felt something on his cheek. He wiped it off and saw blood on his finger.

“That's cheating!” he objected.

“Is that what you told the Balrog when he pulled out his whip?” asked Thorongil taking a second knife from his belt. “We're done.”

Not accustomed to losing, Eldarion was quite unhappy. “Well we’ll call it a draw.”

“No, you had your chance for a draw a moment ago!” roared Thorongil. “You lost.”

Eldarion knew better than to push his luck. He quickly saluted his foe. “Until next time!”

“I look forward to it,” replied Thorongil.

 

Many hours later, with a half moon high in the sky, fifty of Gondor’s finest Rangers were huddled in a dell only a handful of miles north of the black gate. Captain Anders had just finished the briefing.

“So if we get caught sneaking into position, or it turns out the ruins of the northern Tower of the Teeth is impossible to climb, what happens?” asked a Ranger.

“We improvise,” replied Anders.

“And if the army can’t break through their lines and relieve us before we run out of arrows?” asked Caranel.

“Don't worry, we've got Aderthon,” chirped a Ranger who had fought beside the son of Miril in the past.

“Isn't ‘Don't worry, we've got Aderthon’ generally Aderthon's entire plan?” replied another. The whole company laughed.

“Contact!” cried a lookout sprinting into the dell. “Enemy patrol, two miles south-east.”

“Did you engage?” asked Anders.

The Ranger nodded his head. “We had no choice! They ran right into us. We took them down but we didn't have time to hide the bodies.”

“Let's move!” shouted Anders. “We circle north!”

 

At dawn the next morning a horn sounded forth on the Morannon as the first light of the sun broke shown between the mountains. Not since Aragorn sounded his challenge to Sauron’s legions had such a beautiful note been heard on that ancient battle plain. Aderthon and four hundred men in shining armor stood ready to meet the forces of Mordor. Hundreds of orcs came streaming up the road which led to the Black Land.

As they passed between the ruins of the mighty towers which had once formed the first line of defense of Sauron’s realm they were met with a hail of arrows. One hundred Rangers were split evenly between the ruins of the two mighty Towers of the Teeth. Though they were now little more than piles of broken stone and twisted iron, they provided an impressive defensive position.

As the arrows fell among the orcs about half turned either north or south to face this new threat. Many ran headlong into their brethren who were continuing the rush towards Aderthon's line. It was into this confused rabble which Aderthon charged headlong, his red-cloaked knights cutting down entire companies like grain before the scythe.

As more and more orcs surged through the ruins of Sauron’s once impregnable fortress Aderthon's advance slowed. The Rangers soon found themselves busy shooting orcs trying to clamber up the ruined towers to reach them. Suddenly there came a sound in answer to Aderthon's mighty horn - the piercing howls of a hundred wolves.

The next wave of orcs was more organized, owing to superior leadership. Burt the troll, once Mirumor’s second in command, had more tactical sense than his orcs and the brute strength to enforce discipline within his ranks. He marched a legion of five hundred orcs and seven trolls in a proper battle line straight at Aderthon's armored infantry, while sending his wolfpacks against the Rangers on the towers.

Captain Anders in the northern ruins and Captain Carter on the southern tower both recognized the threat of the wolves at once, ordering their rangers to leave the orc column to the infantry below. As a hundred hungry wolves descended on each tower they sent volley after volley at them but the beasts pressed on. These hunters of the northern mountains had nimble paws well suited to the rocky remains of the Towers of the Teeth. They swarmed up the rubble faster than a man could run across open country.

The Rangers were expert marksmen and slew many of the wolves before they could reach their positions, but nearly a third of their number were unharmed as they came to the summits. A fierce melee ensued - sword against claw and knife against fang. The leather armor of the rangers and fur hides of the wolves were no match for tooth and steel. Few of the Rangers survived unscathed and every wolf was slain. Captain Anders took a claw to the face, and Caranel’s left arm was terribly mauled. The few Rangers who could still fight scrambled to find bows with good strings and unbroken arrows.

As they looked down upon the battle below they saw that the fight there went only slightly better. Garmegil flashed in the sunlight as Aderthon killed three of the trolls within minutes. Burt, recognizing that a duel would not be in his interest, kept away from the half-elven warrior, hoping he and his remaining kin could kill enough of Aderthon’s soldiers to force the captain of Gondor to withdraw.

“How goes the battle?” Captain Anders shouted to his men who were firing down onto the orcs below. Unable to see through the blood streaming down his forehead he chose to help bandage the wounded instead of take up a bow.

“Well, the trolls are inflicting significant casualties,” shouted a Ranger in reply, before turning to his wounded comrades with a grin. “But don't worry, we have Aderthon!”

The bloodied Rangers all laughed.

As the battle on the road raged neither side seemed to be making any real progress. Aderthon decided to play his final card. He signalled a withdraw, slowly backing his army westward along the road before suddenly rotating southward, so that his enemy was arrayed on the road and his army stood to the south of it. He then blew his horn, and from the west came an answer in kind. The Rangers looked west and saw a sight every soldier of Gondor hopes to someday see: a hundred knights in white and blue, lances held high before a charge. Their polished armor and weapons glistened like mirrors in the rising sun.

“Dol Amroth!” cried a Ranger. “Forget Eagles, Dol Amroth is coming!”

At the center of their line a brilliant banner fluttered in the wind: a swan-ship upon a field of blue. Beneath it sat Erchirion, brother of Elphir, commander of the Knights. He drew his sword and cried in a loud voice. “Dol Amroth!”

“Dol Amroth for Gondor!” roared his men in answer. 

Lances were lowered and horses reared. The orcs quailed in terror. Burt tried to shout orders but his army was already fleeing back down the road to Mordor, and he with it. Some of the orcs tried to push their colleagues to the ground, hoping the knights would be slowed as they killed the stragglers.

“No quarter!” shouted Erchirion as he led the charge.

The knights slaughtered more than half the orcs before reaching the rubble of the Black Gate - terrain over which their horses could not run. Burt narrowly escaped and led the survivors - or more accurately, was able to run the fastest among the routed army - south toward Durthang.


	14. Chapter 14

Five days after Aderthon’s offensive more than one hundred wounded soldiers came limping through the gates of Minas Tirith under a cold drizzle suitably dreary for the occasion. There had been fewer soldiers killed at the Black Gate than expected for such a large offensive battle, but there were many wounded - especially among the Rangers, most of whom suffered injuries of varying severity from fang and claw. Princess Amdirien and Eddil were both among those awaiting the company’s return. Amdirien had requested the Captain Anders be recalled, while Eddil was desperately hoping his wife would not be among the wounded.

Anders led the company as far as the first courtyard of the city where he spotted Amdirien waiting for him. As he knelt before her he only got as far as “Your Majesty…”

“You're wounded,” she gasped, seeing the three deep cuts on his forehead from a wolf's claws. “Are you alright?”

The Ranger nodded sadly. “I'm alive, which is more than can be said for some of my men. I do not wish to seem rude, Your Majesty, but I must report to your father as soon as possible.”

“Very well, we will go to the Citadel at once,” she replied. “Take my horse.”

“I can walk,” said Anders.

“Are you suggesting I can't?” asked the Princess. “You're hurt, get on my horse.”

“Yes ma'am,” nodded the Ranger.

They went straight to the seventh level and Captain Anders made his report to Lord Aragorn. Afterwards he sat on a bench near the White Tree and hung his head, thinking of his lost men. Twenty-two Rangers had died to the wolves, and another fifty-three were wounded. That victory, which the minstrels would credit to the shining lances of Dol Amroth, had been well paid for in Ranger blood.

 

Not long after Amdirien found Anders, Eddil had found Caranel. His heart sank at the sight of her bandaged arm.

“Don't embarrass me,” she snapped as her husband ran to help her.

An older ranger, his face covered in scars, glared at her. “Captain Anders just left on Princess Amdirien’s horse, but you are scared to be seen getting comfort from your husband? Pray that you never come home wounded to find no one waiting for you.”

Caranel threw her head back in shame and frustration. “I'm sorry Eddil.”

Eddil took her good hand. “How bad is it, dear?”

“It hurts… a lot...” she sighed.

“My mother can look at it tonight if the Houses of Healing are too busy,” he replied.

 

As Eddil had predicted the Houses of Healing had no time to help those in no danger of dying. It was after midnight when his mother returned from the Houses. She saw Caranel’s poorly bandaged arm and went to get the herbs she kept at home.

“Take off the bandage,” she said.

“I'm fine, you can look at it tomorrow,” replied the Ranger.

“Shut up and take off the bandage!” hissed the healer. Eddil’s mother was a formidable woman - she had to be, spending all day saving the lives of stubborn soldiers despite their best efforts. In her youth she had travelled with the army and on a battlefield in Harad saved her future husband. The proceeding thirty years had done nothing to dull her edge.

“Yes ma’am,” replied Caranel obediently. Eddil hardly had time to chuckle before his mother sent him running to pick Athelas from the garden.

Eddil’s mother examined the wound - not particularly gently - and cleaned it with hot water and athelas.

“You got lucky!” she explained. “Eighteen deep punctures and not a single cut to anything important. It'll be stiff and sore, but it should heal.”

 

That same evening, at a private shooting range on the sixth level, Astra was busy training. Aldamir was there too - Astra said if she had to learn to fight with a sword, he had to learn to shoot a bow. Aldamir managed to be nearly as insufferable a student. Sitting in a corner with a book on extinct elven dialects of Eregion sat Timothy, patiently waiting for his friends to finish.

Just as Astra was getting tired, Thorongil arrived unexpectedly.

“What brings you down among the common folk?” asked Timothy laughing. In reality it cost more than a daily laborer made in a day just to walk into that archery range.

“The Citadel Guard are training up on seven,” he answered. “I thought I would…”

The maia froze mid sentence as his eye caught the glint of black metal from Astra’s quiver.

“Is that Smaug’s Bane?” he asked excitedly.

Astra nodded. “It is indeed.”

“May I…” began Manwë’s Herald.

“No,” smiled Astra. She didn't share, and took joy in the envy of others.

Thorongil took a single gold coin from his pocket and tossed it to Aldamir. “What is this worth?”

Aldamir examined the old coin. It was of dwarven origin, and very old. “One hundred Gondorian silver, assuming its real,” he answered. It was probably worth twenty more.

“Ten of those, then we can talk,” said Astra. Aldamir stood aghast. For a woman who rarely had any coin, she seemed determined to earn as little as possible.

“At that price, I'd rather just buy the arrow!” laughed Thorongil. “Or play for it… fancy a wager?”

Timothy shut his book and hurried over to join his friends.

“Don't do it Astra!” gasped Aldamir. For all her talent, Aldamir had no confidence that she could beat Eönwë.

Astra looked very hurt. “You don't think I'll win?”

“Ten thousand Gondorian silver against The Arrow,” smiled Thorongil. “One shot, closest to the center.”

“He's not human!” began Aldamir, before hearing the terms. “Wait, what? Ten thousand?”

Timothy did his best to dissuade his friends. “It could be a hundred thousand and it would still be insane to accept!”

Astra immediately thought of the ancient Noldorin bow for sale only a few doors away for less than ten thousand silver. She was a bit worried that her friends seemed so certain she would lose, but in her heart she knew no fear. She couldn't lose. She never missed.

Seeing that he would get nowhere with Astra, Timothy begged Thorongil - in Quenya, to keep Astra from understanding - not to go through with it.

“What would your wife think of you stealing from her?” he asked in the elder tongue. Thorongil only laughed.

Timothy was not noted for his courage, but he was fiercely loyal - and completely sure his favor with Elerína would protect him. “If you take her arrow, I'll tell her who you are.”

“That would be most unwise!” threatened Thorongil.

Drawing the Black Arrow from her quiver, The Huntress gave her answer. She took her time, and though she could hardly breath her hand was as steady as a statue's. Her shot was excellent; had she been shooting for a missing scale in a dragon’s hide she would have easily hit. The arrow came to rest half an inch from perfect.

Aldamir was almost as excited with the shot as she was. Ten thousand silver! Timothy, by contrast, was unmoved. It wasn't perfect, and he knew Thorongil’s would be.

It was.

Thorongil Thorongil threw out his left arm and his black bow, made of the same mysterious metal as his armor, sprang from his hand. An arrow materialized in his right as he put it on the string. Without pausing he took aim and let it fly. It landed just inside Astra’s, right on the center dot.

The two mortal men couldn't immediately tell Astra had lost, but the eyes of The Huntress could see it plainly. She fell to her knees and wept in despair as Thorongil went to retrieve his prize.

The maia spent a long time standing and holding The Black Arrow after he pulled it from the target. When he returned Astra was in tears, Aldamir struggling to console her. Timothy was livid, but he did not follow through with his threat.

“Don't gamble with that you can not bear to lose,” said Thorongil. He offered her the arrow.

“Wait, what?” sobbed Astra. “I can have it back?”

“It's yours,” replied Thorongil, “yours by birthright and conquest.”

“Why did you want it?” she stammered. “Why not just tell me?”

“I didn't tell you so that next time you will be more cautious!” replied Thorongil. He left out his interest in whether Timothy or Aldamir would betray him, and his general love of mischief - at least until he hurt someone. “As for why I wanted it, perhaps I should just show you…”

As Astra put her hand on the arrow she screamed and recoiled in shock.

“Hold it,” he commanded, handing her the arrow. “See what I saw.”

As she carefully touched the arrow again she saw fires burning all around her. She seemed to be in Laketown, but the buildings were different from those she knew. She heard the roar of the inferno and then suddenly the deafening cry of a beast like nothing she had ever imagined. In fear she looked up and saw him: Smaug the Golden, swooping low above the burning town.

She turned round to see a man shouting orders to other men who fled, leaving him alone on the last few planks untouched by Smaug’s rage. Shot after shot he took, until at last he was down to one arrow. Only then did young Astra fully understand what was happening; she recognized the arrow - it was her own. As the man prepared his final shot a bird came to his shoulder with Bilbo’s message, and with Astra speaking along he recited his last fateful words to the weapon ere he took his legendary shot. As the vision faded Astra nearly collapsed.

“Thank you!” she whispered, so weary from the spell she could barely speak.

“Can we see?” asked Timothy eagerly.

Thorongil answered him in the tongue of the elves with the slightest hint of a smile. “You? Absolutely not! And that is the least suffering that has ever come from threatening me.”


	15. Suit Up

“Wait here,” ordered Amdirien. All four of her guards remained outside the small barracks she was visiting. They had no idea why they were there, but that wasn't for them to question.

Amdirien stalled for time - straightening her hair and fixing her dress.

“Hello?” said Sauron, opening the door suddenly. “Can I help you?”

Amdirien jumped in surprise. After a few deep breaths she offered him her hand. “I'm Amdirien.”

Sauron cautiously shook it. “I'm Eglanor.”

“I know who you are,” replied the princess, stepping into the closet of a room that Sauron and Gwethien called home. She closed the door behind her. 

“Brave, if true,” grinned Sauron.

“Elerína knows I am here,” replied Amdirien. “And Tim says Gwethien can be trusted.”

Gwethien, who was lying in her cot completely uninterested in talking to the mortal, felt deeply conflicted about such trust. “I can't believe that librarian tells people I'm harmless,” she moaned to herself.

“I require your services,” explained the princess, “as a smith.”

“My services don't come cheap,” began Sauron.

“Well seeing as I own this building, we’ll count it towards your rent,” interrupted Amdirien.

Sauron was surprised but impressed. “You take after your teacher. Of course, her words have considerable threat behind them.”

“I find it inconceivable that you, who rose from Ar-Pharazôn’s prisoner to chief adviser in only a few years, would be foolish enough to harm me,” smiled the Princess. “You're far too subtle for that.”

Sauron wasn't sure if he had been complimented or warned against trickery. 

“If you would please come with me, I want to show you something I found in Rivendell years ago,” she continued. “I am hoping you can make some changes to it.”

Sauron followed Amdirien up to the Citadel. She led him to an armory.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Sauron amazed.

“You're the one old enough to know!” laughed Amdirien.

“The armor of the Eagle Guard,” he muttered. Hordes of his troops, and many of his friends, had fallen to Eönwë’s personal legion.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I want you to change the colors and heraldry to that of Gondor,” replied the Princess.

Sauron immediately understood the utility of such a request. He also hoped Eönwë would be furious that his precious guard’s armor had been stripped of his own heraldry. “I'll see what I can do.”

 

That very evening, as Thorongil and Elerína returned to their room in the palace, they found Mirumor waiting for them at their door. She was in considerably nicer clothes than usual; clearly she had made use of her pay.

“You don't want to ask how I got up here,” said the sorceress, preempting the question. Elerína sighed in frustration; if Mirumor was caught it would be her task to smooth things over with the King.

“I need to go back to Minas Morgul,” she continued. “I think there is knowledge there that will prove useful.”

Thorongil demanded more information.

“Ingacarca has lost one battle since the fall of Angband,” argued Mirumor. “Surely we should be trying to learn how the Nazgûl did it!”

Elerína thought Mirumor was just looking for an excuse to study the Nazgûl’s sorcery, but she did not want to interfere with her husband’s work, so she bit her tongue.

“Fine, I'll get you the key,” groaned Thorongil. “Now get out of here before someone asks questions.”

“Actually, I was hoping you would walk me down to the gate,” began the sorceress.

Thorongil was not pleased. “What? You'll sneak up here but then I have to escort you back?”

“If she gets caught it'll be my problem to deal with,” moaned Elerína. “Take your little spy out of here.”

Thorongil did as he was asked, and the next morning he secured passage for Mirumor to Minas Morgul.

 

After three hard days in Minas Tirith’s finest smithy, Sauron finished his appointed task. The result was spectacular; no finer armor had ever been forged with the icons of Gondor upon it. Amdirien was very impressed. She had spent her own time well, gathering cloaks from Gondor’s most elite units - including the teal blue of her royal guard. She proudly invited Thorongil to see it.

“What have you done to my armor!” cried Thorongil at the sight of it. A hundred feet below, in his little room, Sauron cackled maniacally.

Amdirien had not anticipated that reaction. “I thought you would like it!”

Thorongil picked up a gauntlet and examined it closely. The silver and gold of his old army had been replaced with the black and silver of Minas Tirith. He knew at once that Sauron must have done it, for the craftsmanship of the modifications matched Aulë’s original work.

As he examined each piece of the armor in turn, Amdirien pleaded for his approval. “I thought it would be useful for you to have armor in our colors, and you said you hated the sort of things we can make ourselves. Nobility are permitted to wear their own armor if they prefer it to standard issue, so with this you can blend into almost any Gondorian military unit! I also think…”

“It's wonderful,” interrupted Thorongil.

Amdirien was skeptical of his sudden change of heart. “Really?”

“Yes,” smiled Thorongil, patting the young princess on the shoulder. “I’m overly attached to the past.”

“Aren't we all?” asked Amdirien.

“In the past, I could fly!” laughed the maia.

Thorongil quickly put on the armor. It didn't afford him the stealth benefits of the black armor he could conjure at will, but it was much less conspicuous.

“I found you a wide range of cloaks,” said Amdirien, pointing a stack of brightly colored cloth. “Ilmarë says you prefer red...”

Thorongil clipped the teal blue of Amdirien’s personal guard into his pauldrons. “This will do nicely, Your Majesty.”

Taking all the cloaks with him, Thorongil returned to his room in the palace where his wife was relaxing.

“You won,” he growled as he entered.

“What darling?” she asked as she turned to the door. She burst into raucous laughter at the sight of him.

“What a dashing young knight of Gondor you make,” she giggled.

Thorongil laughed as well. “You know what the worst of it is? Somewhere in Valinor Olorin is reminding everyone how he travelled the wilds for thousands of years, fighting the shadow from southern Harad to eastern Rhûn!”

“I seem to recall many nights spent smoking pipe weed in the halls of Rivendell which he leaves out of his recounting,” smiled Elerína.

“This is all your fault!” Thorongil continued. “You and your Princess.”

“So this was her doing?” asked Elerína proudly.

“Of course it was her doing.”

“You could have turned it down,” Elerína observed. “Her royal charm too much for you?”

“No,” replied Thorongil. “She had a series of excellent arguments I couldn't refute.”

“Well isn't that a shame,” laughed Elerína.

 

Hours later Sauron arrived at Thorongil’s door in the dead of night. He had finished decoding the orc message Aldamir intercepted a few months prior. Even he was concerned by what he found.

The message, which had been travelling north when intercepted, accepted terms for an exchange: Ingacarca would provide considerable mithril and gold in exchange for a vial of plague recovered from the ruins of Barad-dûr. The exchange was due to be made on the winter solstice, on the slopes of mount doom. That was only ten days away.

“But if this message never arrived?” asked Elerína.

“He'll be there,” replied Thorongil and Sauron in unison.

“He'll leave Mordor by the Black Gate?” asked Thorongil, a plan already forming.

“I don't see why he wouldn't,” replied Sauron. “But by then he’ll have his weapon.”

“You're just the backup plan,” explained Thorongil. “I'll take a team into Mordor to take the vial and return through the Spider's Pass. You and Elerína go to the Black Gate, in case I fail. Gwethien will come with me. We leave at dawn tomorrow!”

Sauron went to wake Gwethien, who was not at all excited about the prospect of fighting Ingacarca. Elerína went to inform Lord Aragorn. Thorongil went to Aldamir’s house the next morning, and hammered on his door long before sunrise.

Aldamir’s father answered the door. “What the hell do you want!”

Thorongil pushed straight past him. “Aldamir!” he roared. “Put on your armor, its time to save Middle Earth!”

Astra and Aldamir quickly changed unto their travelling gear and armor, respectively. Timothy stumbled out of the guest room.

“What's going on?” he yawned.

“Ingacarca is going to Mordor to buy a vial of plague, like those you found in Minas Morgul,” Thorongil hastily explained. “We’re going to stop him!”

“This sounds like a terrible idea,” Timothy mumbled, but he put on travelling clothes nonetheless. He then went to find Caranel and Eddil.

As the sun rose that morning Thorongil led his team towards the Vale of Sorcery while Elerína and Sauron went with Captain Anders and his Rangers to the Black Gate. As the sun set Thorongil rode into the Tower of the Moon and found Mirumor.

Thorongil interrupted her supper. “Time to earn your pay!”

“Thorongil!” exclaimed the sorceress. “Why are you here?”

“Ingacarca will be in Mordor soon, if he isn't already,” explained the maia. “I hope you found what you were looking for, because you're going to help me stop him.”

Mirumor grinned and looked down at her crossbow. “Let's go hunting.”


	16. The Huntress's Final Shot

Night was falling on the eve of the solstice when Thorongil, Gwethien, Aldamir, and his company arrived on the slopes of Mount Doom. Timothy foolishly wished they had time to visit the famous Cracks of Doom where The Ring had been destroyed. Such a shadow lay on that cursed place that he likely could not have forced himself to enter it. Rock and stone would not forget the influence of the dark lord in five thousand years, let alone fifty.

They began the climb up Sauron’s Road and quickly came to a small orc camp. One armored troll and thirty orcs waited for Ingacarca’s arrival. As they prepared their attack, Thorongil and company snuck within bow range of the enemy camp.

“We need to take out the troll first,” whispered Aldamir.

“My arrows can't pierce that armor,” replied Thorongil.

Astra drew the black arrow from her quiver. “I bet this can!”

She slowly took aim. The troll stood in the middle of the camp. Astra had made shots this long before, but never uphill. Though she would never tell her friends, she had also missed plenty like this.

“Maybe you should do it,” sighed The Huntress, offering her arrow to Thorongil. All the others gasped.

Thorongil nodded and took the arrow. Conjuring his black bow in his other hand he quickly killed the troll, sending the orcs into a panic.

“Charge!” cried Thorongil, leading the warriors among the company up the road and into their camp.

Thorongil and Gwethien did most of the killing. Caranel held her own with her bow. Aldamir and Eddil only got two apiece.

They quickly searched the tents and corpses for their quarry. Thorongil found a large bundle of glass vials wrapped in cloth.

He handed them to the vampire. “Gwethien, take these to Minas Tirith!”

“Close your eyes,” commanded Thorongil. Only Mirumor understood. 

“Look east or close your eyes!” roared Thorongil. The mortals slowly did as they were told.

Once no one was watching, Gwethien transformed. Two bat-like wings sprang from her back and she took off, westward and upward, with incredible speed.

“Alright, search the bodies one more time, and then we leave,” said Thorongil.

Aldamir guessed, and Timothy and Mirumor knew, that Gwethien was a maia and thus were not too surprised that she had vanished. Astra, Caranel, and Eddil were amazed. Thorongil refused to answer their questions.

Their second search through the bodies was less profitable but proved critical. Eddil stumbled upon another vial of plague. Some clever orc must have stolen it, intending to sell it himself at a later time.

Thorongil was furious with himself. There had been no reason to send Gwethien away so quickly! His trepidation regarding her transforming in the presence of Eddil, Caranel, and Astra now left the fate of mankind resting on their ability to outrun Ingacarca and whatever he brought south with him.

Timothy lost count of how many hours - or days - they spent running west towards Cirith Ungol. Thorongil drove them onwards and lent them his strength so only he tired. They set a pace to match the Three Hunters’ chase of the Uruk-hai across the Eastfold. The wolfriders of Inga’s hunters were faster still; they were within sight of Thorongil’s party as they reached the steep and winding ascent toward Cirith Ungol.

At the base of the cliffs Thorongil handed Timothy the vial. “Take it, and don’t look back.”

“We can't leave you here!” objected Caranel.

“Acceptable losses,” replied Thorongil. “And I'm not dead yet.”

Inga’s hunters were now well within sight on the road they had come by. Aldamir regretfully rallied his friends and led them up the winding road towards Shelob’s Lair while Thorongil stood barring the narrow entrance.

Perched atop a monstrous white wolf, Ingacarca rode confidently up to Thorongil. The canine monster stood eight feet tall, and Ingacarca himself was taller than any ordinary orc. He wore light armor - he relied on his speed and reflexes to protect him in battle. In his right hand he held a beautiful sword almost as old as he was. On his back he carried a metallic longbow, much like the one Thorongil could summon at will.

His voice was fairer than his looks belied, with his deathly pale skin covered in a web of scars. “It's been a long time,” he grinned, though he looked puzzled. He could tell something was amiss with his ancient adversary. “You're ... not all here, are you? If you were you’d have flown away by now. You look more like a shadow, or a painting...”

“How did you escape?” asked Thorongil, stalling for time. “I thought we had Angband well surrounded.”

“It's a good tale, but one for another time,” replied the orc. “I have a plague to start.”

Thorongil held up his sword and flames licked down the blade. “Come and take it.”

Inga laughed. “You don't have it, Captain! I need not waste my time with you.”

With a word to his wolf it began to climb the cliff to Thorongil’s right.

“Kill him, then join me by the tower,” Inga shouted to his troops. They began to funnel into the narrow road cut into the cliff.

Without his full power Thorongil knew Inga was beyond his strength to harm at range. He did have one idea to even the odds, however. Ingacarca would surely parry anything thrown at him, but perhaps not something which missed.

Thorongil threw one of his daggers just along the general’s back, and sure enough Inga made no effort to parry it. As it flew past him there was a loud ‘crack’ as the knife cut his bowstring.

“That is a wonderful trick!” roared Ingacarca, furious but impressed. He had intended to pick the mortals off one by one from the cliff beside the road to Shelob’s lair. “It will do nothing to save your friends!”

Thorongil was much too busy to respond. He spun to and fro, slaying orcs and wolves by the handful. One thousand feet above, on the road to Cirith Ungol, Timothy and his friends heard what sounded like a thunderstorm on the plains below.

Ingacarca’s wolf bounded from ledge to ledge, scaling the rocky face with ease. For twenty minutes it ran atop the cliff beside the road the passed by Cirith Ungol, until near the entrance to Shelob’s lair he passed the fleeing company by. The monster leapt into their path one hundred yards ahead of Aldamir and his friends. Slowly the beast and its rider came towards them. Timothy looked in vain back down the road into Mordor, desperately hoping to see Thorongil come striding up to save them.

Ingacarca felt very strange as he approached his prey. His eyes, which thanks to Morgoth’s sorcery could see both the world of the living and that of spirit, were suddenly blind to all but light men can see.

Astra set the Black Arrow to her string. Timothy held up his stone. Steel flashed in the evening sun as Aldamir, Caranel, and Eddil drew their blades.

Ingacarca slid off his massive mount. “Hand over the vial, and I'll let you go. Spend a few more years with your loved ones before the plague takes you all! Or perhaps you'll get lucky; there were clearly some survivors last time.”

His offer sounded oddly appealing, for among the many gifts bestowed upon him by his ancient blood was a power in his voice. Though he rarely negotiated, he had far more skill for it than a common orcish commander. Another gift of his heritage was intuition bordering on precognition: while some of the eldar were blessed with long foresight, Inga, like Eönwë among the maiar, instead could see the immediate future with utmost clarity. This was of little help in council but it made him nigh impossible to surprise in a fight. This is why he was so horrified to find that even as he spoke he felt a biting pain in his right arm - Mirumor’s first dart found its mark.

Timothy’s stone was doing more than restrict his vision, it also blinded his foresight! Realizing the threat this would present, Inga quickly made his move.

“Brave, but futile!” he laughed, turning to Mirumor with a grin. “I’m immune to poison.”

“Poisons for orcs, I know,” replied Mirumor meeting his smile with her own. “Because you're not an orc… you're an elf.”

It had been one of the Witch-King’s greatest triumphs - a poison to kill the Eldar. Deep in Minas Morgul Mirumor had found his lab, and taken one of the few remaining doses of the unholy serum.

“Kill the archer,” whispered Inga to his giant wolf. The beast immediately charged the company and lept ten feet into air, clear over the three swordsmen.

The Huntress had no time to aim, but Smaug’s Bane would gladly claim another beast out of legend. Her arrow met the wolf mid flight, lodging itself deep in its skull. The beast died before it hit the ground.

Unfortunately for Astra the arrow could do nothing to slow the beast’s fall. It landed right where it had intend - on The Huntress. She screamed in pain under its crushing weight, but Aldamir had no time to help her, for Ingacarca drew his sword and engaged all three of Eddil, Caranel, and himself.


	17. Aftermath

Unhindered by Timothy’s stone Ingacarca would have slaughtered the mortal heroes in seconds. Even with such an impediment he was still a far superior swordsman. Eddil was the first to fall, his knee ruined by a kick from the orc’s heavy boot. Caranel narrowly parried the killing stroke that followed, allowing Eddil a chance to crawl away from the fighting.

While Aldamir and Caranel narrowly survived Inga’s vicious onslaught, Timothy and Mirumor struggled to pull the carcass of the massive wolf off Astra’s body. They succeeded in time to save her life, but The Huntress was gravely wounded. The monster had landed squarely on her right shoulder and chest, breaking more bones than she knew she had. Simply breathing was agonizingly painful.

After a few minutes Caranel was knocked unconscious by a forearm to the face, but Ingacarca had no chance to finish her off either. Mirumor’s poison was taking effect; Inga was now fighting left handed because his right arm was completely numb and limp. Robbed of the power in his blood and use of his good arm Ingacarca was unable to defeat Aldamir, who recognized a lot of similarities between Inga’s style and Thorongil's.

After five minutes Aldamir was looking the stronger of the two combatants. Ingacarca had not survived all of recorded history by taking chances; he was more cautious than any orc. He retreated to the gates of Cirith Ungol where Aldamir was loathe to follow him in, for he did not know what might be waiting for him inside.

Aldamir rushed back to his friends. Caranel was waking up while Timothy tried to determine the extent of Astra injuries. Mirumor drew her knife and cut the black arrow out the dead wolf’s body.

“Do we go back for Thorongil?” asked Caranel, struggling to her feet.

“He wouldn't want us to,” answered Aldamir sadly, but correctly. Timothy was glad Aldamir was the one making the decision - the last thing he wanted was Elerína blaming him in any way for her husband's death.

Timothy and Aldamir carried Astra and Caranel helped Eddil to stand and walk. Timothy gave The Huntress his stone to hold, which eased her pain considerably. Nevertheless the journey through the Spider’s Tunnel was very slow.

They had almost forgotten the spider, but she was waiting for them. She dropped into their path with a cunning plan.

At the sight of Shelob Timothy grabbed his stone and Caranel pulled the black arrow from Astra’s quiver.

“Wait wait wait!” sputtered Shelob, wanting no part in a repeat of their last encounter. “I have a proposal for you. I’ll let five of you pass, but I get to keep her.”

“Me?” squeaked Mirumor as the spider pointed to her with one of her many jointed arms. Caranel remembered her comrades tortured to death in Cirith Ungol by Mirumor's orcs and for a moment was eager to accept the offer; but the King had pardoned her.

“I don't think so,” answered Caranel. She would never forgive Mirumor for what she had done, but the King's will must prevail.

“There's a giant wolf we killed less than an hour ago outside the tunnel,” suggested Timothy. “Go eat that.”

“I am not some carrion-eating beast,” hissed Shelob, venom spewing from her maw.

Timothy’s stone sprang to life in answer, filling the tunnel with a soft blue glow.

“Alright,” muttered the spider. “I'll check the wolf. Tell Eönwë he owes me for this.”

“Eönwë?” Mirumor gasped.

“You didn't know?” laughed Shelob. “Well tell him if he needs to get rid of you now, I’d happily take you.”

Shelob skittered up onto the ceiling and away down the tunnel. She found the wolf and decided to enjoy a meal, even if she didn't get the pleasure of the kill. Just as she began to feed Thorongil came stumbling up the road to Mordor, carrying a few bags of coin he had taken from the orcs below.

“Not you!” hissed Shelob, her mouth still inside the wolf. Outside her lair, forced to fight in only two dimensions, the spider had no interest in a conflict. “I let your little friends pass, leave me in peace.”

“Have you seen Ingacarca?” asked Thorongil, laughing at the frustrated spider.

“He was here?” shouted Shelob, choking on some dissolved wolf. “And you didn't kill him? You really are worthless.”

“I wasn't aware the two of you didn't get along,” replied Thorongil.

“Who do you think it was that Morgoth tasked with driving me and my siblings out of Ered Gorgoroth after he decided we no longer served a purpose?” hissed the spider.

“Well I promise to tell you the next time I'm expecting him,” nodded Thorongil.

“If you catch him…” began Shelob.

Thorongil smiled. “I'd love to bring him here.”

Being in no condition to fight Shelob, Thorongil left her to her meal and slowly made his way to Minas Ithil, where he found Timothy and Mirumor waiting at the bridge across the hauntingly quiet flow of the Morgulduin.

“You're alive!” exclaimed Timothy.

Mirumor, seeing the bags of coin he carried, had slightly different priorities. “We get a share of what you found, right?”

“Yes, and yes,” smiled Thorongil. “Is everyone safe and sound?”

Timothy shook his head. “Astra is gravely injured, but the healers of the tower say she will live. Eddil can barely walk, but he's in much better shape than she. Also, you should know that Shelob told us all who you are.”

“You're not supposed to tell him that,” exclaimed Mirumor.

“I should have set your meal on fire!” roared Thorongil, shaking his fist at the mountain. He looked then to Mirumor to see if she had anything to say about the revelation.

She went with “I thought you'd be taller,” much to Timothy’s amusement.

“I am starting to understand why Sauron preferred his mortal servants as wraiths,” laughed Thorongil.

As they walked through Minas Morgul on their way to find Astra and the others, Timothy and Mirumor recounted in detail their encounters with Ingacarca and Shelob.

“You found a poison to kill elves?” asked Thorongil. “I thought that knowledge was lost after my war with Melkor.”

Mirumor nodded proudly. “I am still working on deciphering the formula from the notes I found. Fortunately there was a dose of it already prepared.”

“You know who I am, you might learn how to poison elves…” muttered Thorongil.

“I just keeping getting more expensive,” grinned the sorceress.

“Or becoming such a liability that I should take Shelob’s offer,” replied the maia.

“Expensive but useful,” objected Mirumor. “My poison saved the day!”

“Hence we return to my wraith observation,” countered Thorongil.

“Timothy, where is your stone?” asked the maia, suddenly realizing he was without it.

“Astra has it,” answered the scholar. “It seems to ease her pain.”

Thorongil was very impressed. He was somewhat notorious in Valinor for taking an Astra-like view of sharing. “That's very kind of you; my wife would be proud.”

The healers had done as much for Astra as could be done, so after briefly congratulating them on their victory Thorongil left the wounded in their lovers’ care. The Huntress was not doing well - she knew she might never be able to draw a bow again. That evening he dined with Timothy and Mirumor.

“There're a lot of nice weapons just lying around on the other side of that pass,” sighed the maia with a knowing glance to Mirumor. As he predicted, she was eager to return to Mordor.

“When do we leave?” she asked.

“Haven't we had enough adventure for this week?” moaned Timothy.

Both Thorongil and Mirumor laughed at the idea of too much adventure.

“I hate you both,” laughed Timothy. “Can we have a night’s sleep first?”

“You don't have to come,” replied Mirumor. “More treasure for the two of us.”

“I want to see the aftermath of the battle,” answered Timothy.

 

The next morning Eddil and Caranel set off for Minas Tirith while Thorongil, Timothy, and Mirumor went back to Mordor. Aldamir stayed in Minas Morgul with Astra, who was too injured to travel. Thorongil, upon reaching the remains of the giant wolf, cut off its head and burned away flesh and fur with a wave of his hand.

‘The Huntress should have this,’ he thought as he tied the skull to his pack.

The three treasure hunters found even more than they expected. The band of wolf riders Thorongil killed had been Ingacarca's personal guard. Many of them carried weapons stolen from great warriors from other cultures, including First and Second Age Dwarven swords and axes coated in mithril.

Timothy was glad he came - not only because they found an incredible amount of treasure, but because the battlefield was impressive to behold. Everything was burnt and charred - even the rocky cliffs to either side of the road. Timothy recalled having read Weathertop described similarly after Gandalf’s fight with the Nazgûl.

They hauled their treasure back through Shelob’s lair, and after more than a few close calls on the slick stairs down to Morgul Vale, they joined Aldamir and Astra. After a few days in Minas Morgul they procured a wagon sturdy enough to transport Astra to Minas Tirith. They were quickly brought to see Lord Aragorn, who was eager to hear their tale.


	18. Echoes of the Past

Thorongil and his six adventurers were brought before Aragorn. Eddil couldn't kneel, so he stood leaning on a cane. Astra was given a chair to sit on, and was attended to by one of the healers in service to the king. Thorongil, of course, stood as well - on account of his refusal to kneel to anyone on this side of the sea. Elerína stood off to the side of Aragorn’s throne - every week she seemed to move her customary place in the court a little closer to the King.

Aldamir and Thorongil told the tale of their adventure in full. Aragorn was very grateful for their service and impressed that the six mortals had been able to defeat Ingacarca.

“I assume that last vial of plague has been dealt with?” he asked. The vials brought to the city by Gwethien had been cleansed by Elerína that morning. 

“Actually no,” laughed Thorongil. “Here.”

He took the vial from his pocket and tossed it to his wife. Everyone else in the room cringed or gasped for fear that it might break. Elerína caught if and put it in a pouch on her belt to deal with later.

“Well now that we are all wide awake,” continued the King, taking a deep breath, “I presume you would like some reward. You have in all likelihood saved countless Gondorian lives - how can the crown repay you?”

“I just want Elerína to heal Astra,” replied Aldamir.

“That is not within my power to grant,” replied Aragorn quickly, beating Thorongil’s objection.

“You're slowing down,” he quipped to the maia.

“Aldamir son of Toldor, I name you a Knight of Gondor and the North,” declared Aragorn. “That is what you have wanted, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” replied Aldamir.

“Then I grant you that title, with all the rights and responsibilities forthwith,” said the King. “You are now an officer in all branches of my army, may shelter in our fortresses, have the backing of the crown in your business, and have the right to be tried only by the royal family or their designee.”

He gave the proper answer. “The honor is to serve.”

Caranel answered next. “I know we are at war, Your Majesty, but I would ask for a leave of absence to be with Eddil while he recovers.”

“I think the Rangers can probably survive a few months without you,” nodded the King.

Eddil then had a suggestion. “Can we go back to that cottage in Ithilien?”

Aragorn had lent them use of one of his private residences in Ithilien for their honeymoon after their last adventure.

“I'll have to ask the Queen; I think it can be arranged” he answered.

Timothy didn't know what he wanted this time around, but he came up with something. “I don't actually own any property in this city. I'm sure the newly knighted Sir Aldamir wouldn't mind me moving out of his guest room.”

“We'll find something for you,” smiled Aragorn.

Mirumor was next. “I want everything you took from me after I surrendered to you.”

“Thorongil will have to decide what it is safe to give you,” replied the King.

Astra sat silent. She had no ideas. The Huntress was broken, struggling to imagine any future after her injuries.

Having seen many great warriors wounded over the years, Aragorn had an idea. “Would you like a statue? ‘The Huntress’ with her Black Arrow? I shall commission the finest sculptor in Gondor.”

Astra meekly nodded. “Alright.”

At last Aragorn came to the maia. “And for you, Thorongil?”

“I'm sure my wife will need something from you eventually,” he replied.

As soon as they had left the throne room Aldamir begged and pleaded with Elerína.

“Patience, child,” she replied. “She will heal.”

Aldamir was not satisfied. “Soon?”

“Soon enough” was all the answer he could get.

“If I might humbly suggest,” said Thorongil, “why don't we leave Elerína to help Astra, while you and I go sell the pile of First and Second Age weaponry I brought back.”

Astra nodded her approval, so the merchant and the maia got to work. Mirumor helped as well - she wanted to keep her own count of how much they had made. They made a fortune.

Over the next few days Thorongil brought gifts to each of his friends. Eddil and Caranel received swords from the among those Thorongil took from the orcs. He enchanted them in much the same way as Aldamir’s blade. Having nothing special to give Aldamir, Thorongil gave him half of his own share of the profits of their adventure. For Astra he had the skull of her final prey exquisitely mounted.

Timothy’s gift was last of all, and it was by far the most personal. Elerína invited Timothy to the Citadel and left him on a bench in the royal gardens. Thorongil came out to join him.

“I've been asking myself, what can I give a scholar?” said Thorongil. “I think I have an answer. I've seen a lot of history, and as you know from Astra’s vision from the Black Arrow, I can show it to people if I saw it, or if I have something connected to the event. So tell me, Timothy: what do you want to see.”

“There's no rule that says I can only ever see one thing, right?” asked Timothy, horribly nervous about picking something good. He went through all of history in his mind, thinking of countless moments he would love to see.

“What would you pick?” asked Timothy, deep into his deliberations.

“Perhaps Ilmarin,” answered Thorongil. “Or Tirion. Or if you want to see an event, not a place you could…”

“Can you show me my father?” interrupted Timothy, suddenly realizing the only good answer. His father had died when he was barely a year old.

Thorongil looked more nervous than he had facing the orc army. “Let me see…”

Thorongil closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes, I can. If you think that is a good idea.”

“Good idea or no, it's what I want,” answered Timothy.

Thorongil took Tim’s sigil and the light within it immediately sprang to life.

“I can show you your birth,” said Thorongil.

Timothy nodded and took back the stone. The vision lasted only a few minutes, but he wept through all of it, seeing the love in his parents eyes.

Tim spent a long time in the garden trying to process what he saw. Elerína came out to see what was taking so long, and was surprised to see him weeping.

“What did you show him?” she exclaimed.

“He asked to see his parents,” replied Thorongil.

Elerína understood. “You can go, I'll take care of him.”

“Thank you Thorongil,” whispered Timothy as Thorongil returned to the palace.

THE END

EPILOGUE

Not long after Thorongil and company returned from Mordor, word came to Minas Tirith that the situation in Umbar was continuing to deteriorate. The King’s regent requested a considerable number of troops be sent to reinforce the city, not against an external threat but rather to help keep order. It was unclear why the city would be in such condition; they paid less taxes than most Gondorian provinces specifically to try to win over public sentiment. The royal family, together with a few of their advisers, discussed their response.

“Losing Umbar would be unacceptable,” argued Eldarion.

“No one is disputing that,” replied Aragorn.

“Then send me or Aderthon,” suggested the Prince. “I can take an army drawn from Dol Amroth and Pelargir.”

“I question whether sending more soldiers will help,” said Queen Arwen. “That might only destabilize a delicate situation.”

“Then send me,” interrupted Amdirien. “This sounds like the work of words, not swords.”

“I can negotiate too!” objected Eldarion. “And it’s too dangerous.”

“Sure you can, brother,” laughed the Princess. “You just never have … ever.”

“Based on Fëalas’s report, I don't think I want you anywhere near Umbar,” answered Aragorn.

“I’ll take Thorongil with me,” suggested Amdirien.

“Oh will you!” laughed Aragorn. “He doesn’t take orders from us mere mortals.”

“He will from me,” she boldly boasted.

“If he will go with you, you should go,” Arwen decided. Aragorn trusted his wife’s judgement.

Amdirien spent a few hours thinking about how to convince Thorongil to join her. This wasn't likely to be a particularly exciting mission. In the end, she decided to ask Thorongil directly before going to Elerína.

 

That evening Amdirien came to the training room in the Citadel’s barracks just as her brothers and the maia were finishing up. Thorongil and Eldarion frequently trained together, as there was rarely anyone else in the city either would find a challenge. Amdirien felt lucky to see that Thorongil was wearing the armor she had given him.

Amdirien went over her plan one last time in her head. ‘First, remind him of the armor. Second, it's a favor to me, not the crown. Finally, play off his love of adventure and hope he takes pity on those who have seen none.’

She took a deep breath, swept back her hair, and went to work. “Hello Captain! How would you like a chance to put that armor to use?”

Thorongil looked at her with considerable suspicion. “What do you want, Amdirien?”

“The situation in Umbar is deteriorating rapidly. My parents need someone to go restore order and prevent a revolt. They say that can be me… but only if you come as well.”

“I've made it clear to your father…”

“It was my idea, not his,” said Amdirien. “He thinks you won't do it.”

“What does Elerína think?”

“I haven't asked her.”

“Really?” asked Thorongil. “You thought I would be easier to convince? Or when I say no, you’'ll go ask her...”

The Princess smiled. “To quote the greatest general in history: always have a contingency plan!”

Thorongil rolled his eyes. “You sound more and more like my wife every day.”

“Please? I don't usually get to go on exciting missions like this.”

“If Elerína approves, fine,” sighed Thorongil. Who was he to stand in the way of her adventure?

Walking with Thorongil to find his wife, Amdirien felt very pleased with herself. A little strategy and flattery went a long way. The maiar were not half as mysterious as they liked to believe.

Elerína wasn't happy about her husband leaving for an extended period, but she didn't want to stand between Amdirien and this task. What was the point of teaching her if she never got to put her talent to the test?

A few weeks later Thorongil and Amdirien were boarding the Tar-Minyatur in the harbor at Pelargir. Arwen bid her daughter farewell on the pier.

“Bring my daughter home safely!” she said to Thorongil. “And be careful. I am not sending her because it is safe, I am sending her because I do not think anyone else will succeed.”


End file.
